


This War of Ours

by Morninglight (orphan_account)



Series: The Healer and the Warlord [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character of Faith, Child Neglect, Child Soldiers, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-20 10:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6002377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Morninglight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparrow Finlay survived one war, only to lose her husband and son. Existing as best she can, a chance encounter with the Brotherhood of Steel drags her into the centre of another war where the stakes are very personal.</p><p>Arthur Maxson owes a debt to the Vault Dweller who tended the wounds of him and his men. That debt will be paid as best he can in the only way he knows how - through war.</p><p>War never changes, but it certainly alters those who are caught up in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. For those who are wondering why I deleted ‘The Healer and the Warlord’, just know that my muse had turned positively evil with a heart of pure malice and I couldn’t continue writing it. Trigger warnings for death, violence, mentioned child neglect, drug addiction/use and PTSD, postnatal depression, fantastic racism, child soldiers and references to torture. AU breakpoint is Sparrow never meeting Danse at Cambridge Police Station and giving up on finding Shaun soon after she escaped the Vault before the Prydwen rocks up in town.

 “Elder Maxson, is it wise for you to go on a provisioning run?”

            Proctor Quinlan’s voice was dry, precise and a little cool as always but Arthur heard the rebuke in it as he dropped some 5mm ammunition into the military satchel he always wore in the field. His laser gatling gun Final Judgment was too powerful and precious to drag out on a routine mission like this, so he switched to the backup mini-gun that most Paladins trained with. “It will do the soldiers good to see their leader performing the same duties they do,” he rasped in answer.

            The tall, lean Scribe’s sigh sounded like a plea for a higher power to knock some sense into his commanding officer. “What if an emergency comes up while you’re gone?”

            “Short of the Prydwen suddenly crashing or half the command staff dropping dead from a bad batch of Instamash, there is nothing that you, the other Proctors, Kells and Cade can’t handle for the day or so I’ll be gone,” Arthur replied with his own silent prayer for Quinlan to shut up and let him get ready.

            “What if you get eaten by a mirelurk?” Quinlan was really reaching for reasons not to leave now.

            “Given I’ll be in power armour, I guess the mirelurk will have canned meat for lunch,” the Elder retorted in a rare show of sarcasm. “Quinlan, give over. I’m going with Paladin Danse, five Knights, a Scribe and ten Initiates. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

            The Proctor shoved his glasses up with a frustrated gesture. “Here’s to hoping some raider scum with a missile launcher doesn’t shoot down your vertibird.”

            Maxson zipped up his ammo satchel and refrained from commenting. Quinlan treated him like a holy icon that needed to be isolated and venerated, not a soldier who could bleed like any other and who couldn’t be above the most tedious of duties. The man was loyal and devoted – but to what Arthur represented, not the person himself. Frustrating, very frustrating.

            “Relax, Proctor,” he said with a nod to the middle-aged man. “I’ll bring back some mirelurk for your cat.”

            “Mrrow?” the grey-black tabby in Quinlan’s arms asked hopefully.

            “Mrrow,” Arthur answered, scratching the cat’s head behind her ear until she purred. “See, Quinlan? Your cat has faith in me.”

            “She just heard you say ‘mirelurk’,” Quinlan shot back dourly. “Well, go on then.”

            Arthur flashed a rare grin at the Proctor before turning towards his suit of power armour. Ammo bag went over the shoulder and mini-gun into the crook of the arm before he checked the fusion core to see it was full. Of course it was. Proctor Ingram was a professional.

            Twisting the handle at the back, he waited for it to open before he stepped inside, the protective metal shell locking around him once he was strapped in properly. Now, aside from a few extra rank marks and mods, he was no different to any other Brotherhood of Steel Paladin.

            It was the matter of a dozen clunking steps to join Danse, who would probably rise from the grave if they didn’t bury him in the power armour the man wore from waking to sleeping every day. The Paladin was his right hand, the eyes at his back, the bulwark at the front. If Arthur was the commander of the Brotherhood of Steel, the mind that guided them like the weapon they were, then Danse was the hand that wielded the sword. Soon he would be Sentinel in truth once they had definitive proof the Institute existed and could be destroyed.

            “Will I be leading this mission, Elder Maxson, or do you wish the honour?” Danse asked formally as he put on his helmet and locked it into place.

            “You know the Commonwealth better than I, Paladin. Today I follow your lead,” Maxson answered with a grin concealed by his helmet. It would be glad to relinquish command for a few hours, worry about nothing more than turning mirelurks at an abandoned fortification into rations for soldier and cat alike.

            “As you wish.” Danse strode towards the stairs up to the command centre, which would take them to the flight deck where the vertibirds were docked. “You know if you die, I’ll have to follow you because it’ll be easier than what the Proctors will do to me for losing you.”

            “Not you too,” Arthur sighed.

            “You are the living symbol of the reunification of the Brotherhood,” Danse pointed out in that grave growl of his. “The rest of the Elders couldn’t see past their factional disputes long enough to herd Brahmin to water.”

            _Glad to see I’m not the only one to see that,_ Arthur thought sourly as he opened the door for the Paladin to climb up to the command centre. “I’m a soldier, Danse. I need to show my people I’m willing to do what I ask of them.”

            “I know that, Elder.” Danse’s tone was understanding, even sympathetic. “But the fact remains we need to keep you alive.”

            The Paladin was right, damn him, but Arthur wasn’t in the mood for cautions. “Let’s go get us some seafood,” he announced as he headed upstairs. “I have a promise to a cat to keep.”

…

The reek of water-rotten wood and dead crab assaulted Sparrow Finlay’s nose as she walked along the street, 10mm pistol at the ready, towards the Gwinett Brewery. Four months in the Commonwealth had taught her that a modded pistol and ammo were as necessary to survival as cooked food and purified water. Nate was dead as the trees that dotted the landscape while Shaun was as gone as the world she knew but there were promises to keep… and suicide was a mortal sin. So miles to go and all of that despite her heart being dead as the radioactive soil.

            Three things sold well in the two settlements she travelled between: chems, alcohol and medicines, in that order. Sparrow didn’t deal in the first, given the Daytripper and Calmex addiction she’d shaken off just before the world ended; the second was why she was heading to Gwinett Brewery on her weekly scavenging day; and the third, because of a semester of first aid in college and being O-, was dispensed when she set up shop as a medic every Tuesday in Bunker Hill and Thursday in Goodneighbour.

            She looked over at Fort Independence to the east. Now called the Castle, it was the base of the Minutemen, a local militia who patrolled the Commonwealth. Then mirelurks crawled up from the seabed and killed their General, splitting the citizen soldiers into factions that were gobbled up by raiders and Gunners – or _became_ them. According to the caraveners of Bunker Hill, the last lot were massacred at Quincy with most of the settlers. So perished the last flicker of organised basic human decency in this part of the Wasteland.

            Vertibird blades cut through the still air of early morning, indicating that the Brotherhood of Steel had emerged from their giant airship to patrol the coast. Opinion was mixed on the military force which had flown into the Commonwealth from the Capital Wasteland last month: they’d developed a reputation for firm but fair dealings with those they traded and the settlements they controlled but it was known they had a habit of confiscating pre-War technology, especially military-grade stuff, and held a grudge against ghouls (even sentient ones), super mutants and anything else that wasn’t pure human. Like most Wastelanders, Sparrow kept her head down as she had no idea how a genuine pre-War survivor who _wasn’t_ irradiated would fare with them.

            It was still impressive to watch the vertibird swoop in low like a raven and two power-armoured soldiers, gold-edged silver in the sunlight, drop out into the courtyard. On the rare moments that she could get Nate to talk about his time in the armoured corps, the only thing he would say was “There’s nothing like a two hundred foot drop in power armour.”

            Judging by the noises that echoed across the water, the mirelurks weren’t that impressed even after the staccato burst of mini-guns shattered the quiet. The vertibird was brought around to land on the wall nearest to the sea, several people in the burnt orange and beige uniforms of the Brotherhood’s grunts jumping out with laser rifles blazing scarlet. Looked like a sweep and scrub mission, which generally preceded the soldiers taking over a location and either fortifying it or sponsoring dispossessed settlers to farm for them. The caraveners, especially those like Trashcan Carla who relied on what she could scavenge from the abandoned areas, were vitriolic about it whereas Cricket and Lucas Miller were philosophical – they could still sell their wares of weapons and armour respectively.

            She paused for a moment, looked over at the Gwinett Brewery and then shrugged. The beer would be there later and it would be interesting to see the Brotherhood in action, confirm a few of the rumours for herself. Knowing there’d be a new stable location for traders would earn her a few caps from the right people and Sparrow had rent to pay just like everyone else in Bunker Hill.

            _Jesus, caps as coinage,_ she thought, taking the Lord’s name in vain as she turned around to take the path to the Castle’s front entrance. That had been the least of the surprises awaiting her in this world of rust and ruin.

            Judging by the noises, the battle was still going on and Sparrow checked her pistol to see how much ammo she had left. Six rounds before she’d need to reload, enough to drop a few hatchlings or a softshell if it came her way. A full-grown mirelurk or a queen would have her seeing Nate and Shaun before she knew it.

            _Oh shit-_ The queen mirelurk was ripping at the power armour of one soldier while another fired uselessly at her tough back-shell. A horde of smaller mirelurks had pinned down the grunts, killing three.

            Sparrow pulled out her precious fragmentation mines. Mixed feelings about the Brotherhood aside, they were one of the better factions in the Commonwealth if you toed the line.

            She snuck in to where time had eroded the Castle wall, creating a natural breach, and set up a line of three mines with two remaining and primed them. “Hey uglies!” she screamed, clapping her hands. “Come and get some.”

            Then she backpedalled quicker than someone arguing with Hancock and waited for the damn things to cross the line of mines.

            Four of the bigger ones did, setting them off and leaving the creatures broken, battered messes that bled ichor green as the grass that grew in the pre-War world. Sparrow shot them all in the face, using up all of her pistol’s ammo, and then holstered her gun to unlimber the sniper rifle from her shoulder.

            MacCready, a merc from the Capital Wasteland, told her that every traveller should have a melee weapon, a short-range firearm and a long-range firearm. In Sparrow’s case that was a switchblade tucked into her right boot, the 10mm pistol, and a sniper rifle looted from a dead raider she found. She climbed up onto the wall, rubble crumbling under her feet, and loaded the weapon before taking aim at the queen’s exposed face as the young sniper had taught her.

            The shot struck the edge of the head-chitin, making the mirelurk jerk back with a noise of pain, but that bought the armoured soldier underneath a chance to scramble free and pull out a ripper. Good choice of weapon against a hard-shelled mirelurk as the chainsaw blade would part the chitin like silk.

            His friend, who looked even bigger than he was, dropped his min-gun and seized the mirelurk by the waist in a show of phenomenal strength. In the ten seconds he held her up, the downed trooper gutted her in a spray of grass-green gore. She was dead before the other armoured warrior let her go.

            Sparrow reloaded her sniper rifle – it could only take one round at a time – and sighted along its length to the biggest of the mirelurks surrounding the soldiers. Back shot would do nothing but annoy it but the instinctive jerking away would ease some of the pressure on the grunts.

            _Fire. Load. Aim. Repeat._ Sparrow fired five more shots before she ran out of ammo, switching back to her pistol and loading the last of the 10mm rounds in. Time to remove the hatchlings from the equation.

            The power-armoured soldiers turned the tide, ripper and mini-gun making short work of the remaining adult mirelurks even as steel boots smashed the hatchlings to bits. Sparrow settled for walking over to the nearest mirelurk nest and shooting the eggs before they could hatch, one bullet for each baby monster. Fire would be needed to get rid of the rest.

            By the time the battle was over, she had two mines and four rounds of 10mm ammo left. Sparrow hoped she found some in a trashcan or on a dead raider before she went to the brewery because the trip back to Bunker Hill would be her most vulnerable time.

            “Make certain of the mirelurks and purge any remaining nests,” rasped the soldier who’d been downed, covered as he was in drying green ichor. “And someone find the stranger who helped us out.”

            _Ah shit, caught._ “Umm, hi?” Sparrow said uncertainly as the big armoured soldier looked in her direction. Royal blue Vault suit with gold trimming was pretty easy to spot against tan stone and a pale blue sky.

            “Thank you for your assistance,” the ichor-covered soldier said, removing his helmet to reveal a hard, brutally scarred face topped with an ash-brown buzz-cut with longer back-swept locks on top. Young, probably no more than five years Sparrow’s junior (and she was only twenty-five), but already an experienced veteran judging by those grim blue eyes. “I’m fairly certain you saved my life.”

            Sparrow holstered her pistol and wiped her sweaty palms on the hips of her Vault suit. “No problem, sir.”

            “Elder, you better get out of that power suit,” muttered the big soldier to his commander. “We need to make sure you’re not injured and the mirelurk ichor’s washed off.”

            “Danse-“ The ‘Elder’ began to say irritably, only to be cut off by Sparrow.

            “If a wound gets infected by mirelurk ichor, you’ve got a good chance of the flesh going necrotic and needing to be cut away before the rest is cauterised,” she explained, climbing down from the wall and unslinging her satchel from her shoulder. “I can show you the scars from learning that the hard way if you’d like.”

            “Initiates Tucker, Hadley and Jenkins, get buckets and fill them from the bay,” the big soldier commanded. “Salt water’s a bitch on power armour but mirelurk ichor’s acidic.”

            The leader stepped out of his armour reluctantly, revealing himself to be a broad-shouldered man in a fleece-lined brown leather coat that fell to his knees over a black version of the Brotherhood uniform.

            The senior grunts, who wore lightweight combat armour embossed with the Brotherhood’s symbol, went around and made sure of the mirelurks as a grizzled veteran in light grey with orange-rust armour went to check the bodies of the dead. “Scribe Jones, Knight-Captain Cora and Initiate Proud are dead,” he announced sombrely.

            “Dammit,” cursed the Elder. “This was supposed to be a simple mission and we lost the medic.”

            “I know some first aid,” Sparrow offered cautiously.

            The leader looked in her direction with a raised eyebrow. “You continue to surprise. Check on the Initiates and Knights first.”

            “Like hell!” the big soldier, obviously a trusted second-in-command, snapped. “None of _them_ were under a queen mirelurk!”

            “Paladin Danse-“

            “You heard what the woman said about mirelurk ichor and wounds, Elder Maxson,” the grizzled veteran pointed out. “Besides, if you get permanently injured, the Proctors would have our guts for power-frame straps.”

            “Very well, Knight-Sergeant Gavel,” Maxson rasped through clenched teeth. “Civilian – wait, what’s your name?”

            “Sparrow Finlay,” she replied as she rummaged in her satchel for a bottle of moonshine, some strips of clean cloth and her three stimpaks. “And I hate to ask this before taking you out to dinner and buying you a bottle of wine, but I’ll need you to remove the coat and the uniform.”

            Judging by the outraged gasps from some of the grunts, you’d think she’d half-flirted with the Lord Himself.

            Danse sucked in a sharp breath as Maxson’s eyebrows rose. Brotherhood members didn’t have much in the way of a sense of humour, it seemed, even as Sparrow wondered where the hell the joke had come from.

            But the Elder obeyed, sliding off the coat to let it pool around his feet as Danse gave the grunts a pointed glare to be busy doing other things. When they were elsewhere, the uniform followed, revealing heavy bones connected by solid muscle and ropes of sinew that rippled beneath sun-kissed skin.

            The build of a man who’d been wearing power armour since his teens. Nate had been a little rangier but similarly muscled. Sparrow chased away the memory of her husband, focusing on the lightly furred chest before her that showed a wicked gouge in the side with the paler lines of healed scars crisscrossing the torso.

            “Have you considered a less hazardous profession?” she suggested, finding refuge in humour as she popped off Bobrov’s Best lid to pour a little on a cloth for cleaning the wound.

            “Like what?” Maxson asked dryly.

            “Deathclaw wrangling or something.”

            “I did that when I was thirteen.” A thick finger traced the line of a scar so ragged that Sparrow winced in sympathy as it ran from nose to jaw.

            “Good Lord,” Sparrow breathed as she knelt to check out the gouge in his side. “If this is a simple mission, I’d hate to see your idea of something complicated.”

            The wound was clean of ichor, the power armour and his coat taking the brunt of the queen’s attack, but she wiped it down with moonshine to be certain of it. Maxson did nothing more than hiss, indicating that he’d learned pain management skills if not how to dodge large irradiated predators.

            “There were more mirelurks than we were led to believe,” Danse growled unhappily. “If I get my hands on that trader-“

            “Mirelurks breed almost as much as radroaches, Danse,” Maxson pointed out, his voice sharpening a little when Sparrow jabbed the stimpak into him and injected healing agent just above the wound.

            The man was superbly muscled, his skin stretched tight over flesh as warm and hard as the Castle’s stone beneath her knees. Nate had been going a bit soft since leaving the service, just as she’d lost her youthful suppleness with birthing Shaun. This man had known nothing but endless war, judging by the fading of the older scars.

            _That’s right, Brotherhood patrols sometimes have kids following them. Jesus, that’s fucked,_ she thought as she washed the wound with vodka again and then used a second stimpak. It looked like a third wouldn’t be needed.

            “Do you want me to stitch it up or just put a bandage on it?” she asked of Maxson. “Your vertibird would be able to get you back to your airship before there’d be any danger from infection if you’d rather have your doctors handle it.”

            Maxson looked down at her with a piercing gaze. The harsh planes of his face, ragged with scars and lines of stress no young man his age should have, were made almost handsome by those vivid blue eyes. His thick beard, tamed a little by some trimming, added years to his features while Sparrow could almost feel the blistering charisma that had older soldiers treating him as their commander. “You have proven yourself competent so far, Sparrow Finlay. Stitch it up.”

            “Paladin Danse, can you get me some fire?” she requested as she put the lid back on the moonshine and put it back in the satchel. “I’ll have to sterilise my sewing needle.”

            Within a minute the Bunsen Burner was collected by Danse from the late Scribe Jones’ pack and switched on, giving her a gas-blue flame – not unlike Maxson’s eyes – to sterilise the needle. Thread came from the reel of waxed cotton she kept in her first aid kit, already washed in alcohol and kept in a sterile plastic container.

            Of course, Maxson just stood there and let her sew him up while discussing what to do with the mirelurk meat. The man’s ability to withstand pain was impressive.

            “Done! Should be healed in a few days if you use a stimpak once a day,” she announced, rising to her feet and brushing off her knees.

            “Thank you.” Maxson’s gaze was direct. “Scribe Jones had medical supplies in his pack. Can you please tend to the rest of my soldiers?”

            “Sure,” Sparrow agreed. That gaze was uncomfortable on her, so she was just as glad to get away from it.

            But as she grabbed her first aid kit and the supplies from Jones’ pack, she felt it on her, following her every move while he got dressed again.

…

“That Vault Dweller knows her business,” Danse noted as Sparrow Finlay treated the rest of the soldiers, all of whom had sustained light wounds that didn’t even require a stimpak, just some cleaning and a couple stitches.

            “Indeed,” Arthur agreed, watching the deft motions of her hands, knowing that her touch would be gentle even when pulling thread through skin to close a wound. He’d barely felt the sting of the needle as she worked. Knight-Captain Cade could learn a thing about patient care from her.

            “Not from Vault 81,” Danse continued, eyeing the faded number on her back. “Do we know where Vault 111 is?”

            “Somewhere up north,” Maxson answered, having pored over maps of the Vaults left by Vault-Tec ever since meeting the man they called the Lone Wanderer in the Capital Wasteland. “Some sort of cryo facility.”

            “Maybe they thawed out,” the Paladin mused.

            “Or she alone,” he pointed out. There was an aura of weary grief and ragged pain around the slender woman for all her jokes. A golden wedding band was on her left heart finger and another one, sized for a man, on the thumb of the same hand. The old world symbol of marriage, still used in many inhabited Vaults like the one Jamie had come from. “We should investigate regardless.”

            “Agreed.” Danse rolled his neck, having removed his helmet to get some fresh air. “I assume we’re going to try and recruit her?”

            “Of course.” Arthur looked up at the Paladin with a ‘no shit’ expression.

            “Decent sniper skills, knows how to deploy mines and is a skilled medic. You can never have too many Field Scribes.”

            “I was thinking of keeping her on the Prydwen if she joins up,” Arthur disagreed. “Cade’s been complaining that anyone half-competent gets assigned to the field and leaves him with ‘ham-handed half-wits’ as medi-bay attendants.”

            “It’s your call, Arthur.” Alone, the other soldiers off butchering mirelurks, salvaging the remnants of the Minutemen’s technology or being tended to by Sparrow, Danse allowed himself to use the Elder’s name.

            It was a good thing that stimpaks had painkillers in them, because morale meant that Arthur had to stand heroically against the stark blue sky even though his side just above the hip ached. “We’ll camp here overnight,” he decided. “We’ll need three more vertibirds to carry the meat, salvage and our soldiers’ bodies to the Prydwen and I know that every non-essential vertibird is on patrol.”

            “Very well.” Danse sighed and pulled down his hood to reveal that messy thatch of brown-black hair. Arthur wondered how the Paladin failed to see how almost every Brotherhood soldier with a preference for men all but drooled over his rugged features and made subtle advances towards him. When the time came for Danse to marry, the stampede would probably flatten the Citadel.

            His gaze went back to Sparrow Finlay as she knelt before the last of the wounded soldiers, the soft slender lines of her body visible beneath the Vault suit. No one had ever flirted so boldly with him before and he could tell that the title of Elder meant nothing to her. It had taken all of his self-control not to thread his fingers through her chestnut-brown hair as her fingers ghosted across his flesh or-

            Arthur shifted a little, clasping his hands behind his back and thinking of Proctor Quinlan posed seductively on his bed wearing nothing but a come-hither smile. The distraction worked long enough for Sparrow to finish up and rise stiffly to her feet, rubbing the small of her back.

            “Thanks,” Initiate Raines said with a brief smile and nod to the Vault Dweller. “You should join the Brotherhood. Cade has hands as tender as a deathclaw’s.”

            _That might be casting aspersions on the deathclaw,_ Arthur thought wryly, experienced with the Knight-Captain’s ungentle touch and brusque bedside manner.

            “Welcome,” Sparrow said, tone noncommittal. Then she collected what was left of her medical supplies, having used up all of Jones’, and turned to walk towards Arthur and Danse.

            “Thank you,” Maxson said yet again. “We’re in your debt.”

            The Vault Dweller smirked, the expression cynical on her fine-boned features. Facing them, it was clear to see her own ragged scar that slanted diagonally across her left cheek to bisect well-formed, if a trifle thin, coral-hued lips and a firm chin. There was a pinkish-white patch of vitiligo surrounding her left eye and the rich brown of her eyes contrasted against tanned skin.

            “I’ll send the bill to Boston Airport,” she replied dryly. “Twenty caps per soldier, ten for the thread and eighty for the two stimpaks.”

            “Is that your usual fee?” Danse asked with a raised eyebrow.

            “I take barter too,” Sparrow assured him, looking up at the sky. It was noon and Arthur wondered if he could use the heat as an excuse to sit down in the shade. Even the mighty Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel could take a rest to avoid heatstroke. “I’m sorry if that sounds a little mercenary, but I’ve used up most of my ammo, mines and medicines and I won’t have enough time to do a proper scavenge of Gwinett Brewery before I head back to Bunker Hill.”

            “Or you could join us,” Arthur rasped. “No more living hand to mouth, no more scavenging in ruins without a proper escort. Brothers and sisters at your back to protect you.”

            The Vault Dweller’s lips tightened. “I’m not sure I care to get involved in factional disputes,” she answered quietly. “I lived through one war. I’d rather not endure another.”

            “So you’re saying that you would have helped anyone, no matter who they were, as you aided us?” Danse asked.

            “Gunner or raider? God no, I’d have watched through my sniper scope and laughed myself silly as the mirelurks ate them,” she said dryly. “As factions go, there are worse than the Brotherhood of Steel. Lord knows with the Minutemen dead and the Railroad only giving a damn about synths, no one else is dealing with the scum. But I was married to a soldier and frankly, too much about you reminds me of him.”

            “You’re pre-War, aren’t you?” Maxson asked, putting two and two together.

            “Yeah, I am. ‘The Woman Out of Time’, as Piper put it in Publick Occurrences,” Sparrow replied, a bitter edge to her voice. “Frozen for two hundred years until some bastards came along, thawed us out long enough to shoot my husband and steal my baby, and piss off only God knows where. Then I thaw out again and wake up to everything I ever knew and loved destroyed.”

            “The Brotherhood’s dedicated to making sure the horrors of the Great War never happen again,” Arthur told her gently.

            “Wait, someone specifically came to a Vault full of cryogenically preserved pre-War survivors and stole a baby?” Danse asked, his tone low and urgent. “I’m sorry to press on a sore point, ma’am, but we need to question you because… well… this may touch on our mission in the Commonwealth.”

            Maxson looked in the Paladin’s direction as Sparrow’s expression became wary. She’d lived long enough in the Wasteland to learn suspicion about anyone wanting to question her, it seemed. “The Institute, Paladin?”

            Danse nodded tightly at his commander. “The Institute, Elder Maxson. Who else would go to the trouble of acquiring a helpless source of pure, non-irradiated DNA in the Commonwealth?”

            Sparrow’s face went white, her eyes dark holes of grief and pain. “What do you mean?” she asked in a raw whisper.

            Arthur jerked his chin at the open quarters where he could see a few dilapidated chairs and a table. He needed to sit down and from the looks of it, so did Sparrow. “We might as well take a seat. I promise you, word of a Maxson, that you will be free to leave once we know what happened.”

            The Vault Dweller looked sceptical through the emotions twisting her face but she nodded. “Fine.”

            Once they were in the shade, Arthur removed his battlecoat and gladly hung it on the back of the chair. Danse remained standing as Sparrow took a seat across from him, wariness blazing in those lovely eyes of hers. “What do you want to know?” she asked flatly.

            “Whatever you can tell us,” Arthur assured her gently. “Do you want any water or something to eat?”

            She shook her head in answer and began to talk. As the words tumbled, hoarse and broken, from her lips the Elder felt his constant hatred of the Institute grow a little more. A bald, scarred man, some kind of surface operative, leading someone in a hazmat suit to tear the child from a man’s arms and murder him in front of his trapped wife. Unnecessary cruelty from a vile organisation.

            Glancing sideways, Arthur saw Danse’s own face become tight with suppressed rage. He hoped that the visible anger would prove to Sparrow that they were on the right side, that they were the best hope to free the Commonwealth from the Institute’s grip.

            Finally the words dried up with the tears that ran down her cheeks during the conversation. “Can I go now?” she asked hopelessly.

            “You don’t want food, water-“ Arthur began to ask, only to be shut down by the bleak gaze.

            “I want to leave now. Can I go?”

            “You may,” Arthur agreed reluctantly.

            She rose to her feet and walked away, grabbing her satchel and weapons off the table on the way out.

            The two Brotherhood soldiers exchanged angry gazes. “I will burn the Institute to ashes and salt the remains,” Maxson vowed fiercely.

            “I will be there with you,” Danse promised just as fervently.

            Maxson looked in the direction Sparrow took, unable to articulate the emotions raging through him at the moment. _I will avenge the wrongs done to you,_ he swore silently. _If that’s the only way I can pay the debt that the Brotherhood owes you._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, mentioned child neglect, drug addiction/use and PTSD, postnatal depression, fantastic racism, child soldiers and references to torture. To avoid breaking out of Maxson’s character too much, Sparrow never lost her left eye and had it replaced with an experimental synth model in this AU.

 

Nordhagen Beach was a small farm on the inlet which led to Fort Strong, which had been the first place the Brotherhood of Steel did a sweep and scrub job on with the super mutants holed up there. It had been the first settlement to give allegiance to the power-armoured soldiers, according to Lucas Miller, and profited by receiving genetically modified crops that grew better in the radioactive soil. Harvest time was about now so Sparrow decided to take a look – despite her better judgment – to see how much of the food would be taken by the Brotherhood.

            “Looking for work?” asked the matriarch of the farm, a young woman with freckles and a long ginger ponytail, as she noticed Sparrow standing there.

            “Oh! Yeah, sure, sorry. I was lost in my thoughts,” the Vault Dweller replied with an embarrassed flush, realising she’d been wool-gathering while watching the vertibird fly a patrol over the harbour.

            “Vertibirds are pretty amazing the first time you see them,” the woman said with a soft laugh.

            “Yeah, they are,” Sparrow agreed.

            “So, if you’re looking for work, you’ve picked a good time to show up,” the farmer continued as she turned towards a crop as bountiful as Sparrow had seen within the walls of Diamond City. “We need to get this picked in two days before the Brotherhood comes to collect their share.”

            “How much are they taking?” Sparrow asked, following the woman.

            “Four out of every ten tatos and mutfruits. With the seeds their Scribes gave us, we’re still doing a little better than we would have on our own.” The woman demonstrated by picking a ripe tato, dull red on the outside with dirt-brown flesh on the inside and tasting like mashed potatoes mixed with ketchup, with a deft twist of her wrist before cutting it with a switchblade she pulled from her belt. “We can keep the seeds from our share as well.”

            Sparrow dutifully looked over the vegetable and nodded. “That does look better than your typical tato.”

            “Exactly.” The woman looked at Sparrow with a birdlike tilt of her head. “We can’t pay in caps but I can offer bed and board while you help pick crops and scrounge up some boots. Yours look like shit.”

            Sparrow looked down at her footwear, the last remnant of her Vault clothing. She’d torn up the suit itself in a fit of raging despair after Maxson and Danse’s questions had torn the scab off her heart. “They weren’t made for covering long trips but I’ve walked across half the Commonwealth,” she admitted with a sigh.

            “There’s Vaults other than 81 up north?” the woman asked in some surprise.

            “Yeah. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it,” Sparrow answered. “By the way, I’m Sparrow.”

            “Kathleen.” They shook hands. “Well, might as well get started. We divide the best between us and the Brotherhood – one to three – and then fill up what’s left with the second-rate stuff. The rest gets fed to the Brahmin or traded to the caraveners.”

            Sparrow hung her satchel from the fence post where she could see it. “Let’s get this over with.”

            The first day was picking and the second day was packing the food into special crates for the Brotherhood to collect. With three pairs of hands – Kathleen, her husband Miles and Sparrow herself – it was done fairly swiftly as she picked up the knack for getting the crops off without bruising them. Shovelling Brahmin dung into the furrows of the tato plants and around the roots of the mutfruit trees took up the rest of the afternoon. Back aching and reeking of shit, Sparrow was glad to be given a little privacy to wash herself with some pumped water, developing a new appreciation for the work that went into tending a farm.

            Dinner was the same as lunch and breakfast – a thin vegetable soup washed down with hubflower petal tea. Once she got back to Bunker Hill, Sparrow was going to order the biggest piece of mole rat she could afford. After dinner, Kathleen tossed her a pair of old but worn boots that would need to be stuffed with rags to fit properly. They were still better than her Vault boots.

            “Thanks,” Sparrow said as she pulled a couple scraps of royal blue cloth – remnants of her Vault suit – and stuffed them into the toes of the mole rat hide boots. When she put them on, they almost fit perfectly. She could put some more rags them tomorrow or get some knitted socks from a trader.

            “No problems. You kept your end of the bargain.” Kathleen sat back on the mattress she shared with her husband, cradling her tin mug of tea. “If you need caps, that Pipboy would fetch you a fair amount from the Brotherhood.”

            Sparrow shook her head. “It’s useful. I work as a medic sometimes and it has a few diagnostic functions.”

            “Ah.” Kathleen pulled her own boots off to wriggle bare toes in the warmth of the fire. “Most Vault Dwellers get chewed up and shat out by the Commonwealth but you seem to be doing okay.”

            “It was adapt or die,” Sparrow answered, sipping some of her faintly sweet tea. “Most of my Vault died.”

            “Damn.” Kathleen looked sympathetic. “I can see why you don’t want to talk about it.”

            “Yeah. My husband died.” Let her make of that what she would.

            “I’m sorry.” Kathleen pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If you ever want to settle down, we’re looking to expand the farm. The Brotherhood’s made some indications that when defeat the Institute, they’re going to set up a permanent chapter here with some of the older Knights and Paladins retiring into civilian roles.”

            “I… Thanks,” Sparrow said with some surprise, unable how to feel about the news the Brotherhood was here to stay.

            “Don’t worry about. You’re a handsome enough woman and the senior Brotherhood staff are supposed to settle down and have kids once they reach a certain age. A woman with a third share in a decent farm could catch herself a Knight or a lower-ranking Paladin, especially if she’s a medic into the bargain.”

            Miles, a wiry dark-haired man, chuckled as he mended a leather strap. “If _I_ thought you’d be interested, well-. Never mind. Just give it some thought and know you’re always welcome to bunk here for the night if you’re passing through.”

            Sparrow blinked back sudden tears. She’d gotten on well enough with the folks at Nordhagen Beach, but… “Thanks. I’ve got promises to keep and miles to go before I can rest.”

            “I understand.” Kathleen smiled at her. “Finish that tea and get some sleep. The Brotherhood will be here early and we’ll be tossing crates all day.”

            Sparrow nodded and finished the hubflower tea before curling up on the sleeping bag that was kept for guests. Hopefully tomorrow none of the Brotherhood soldiers who came would be people who remembered her.

…

The Proctors had all but shit themselves at the thought of the last precious Maxson being injured but the rank and file soldiers had been impressed that Arthur was willing to fight and work beside them. So it was that once a week he would join them on a grunt mission like collecting the tithes from the allied settlements or patrolling the Airport, the only compromise he was willing to make with the Proctors being that he avoided anything that would almost certainly involve conflict. The queen mirelurk had left another scar on his body, a cleaner one than some of his older injuries, and Knight-Captain Cade had been impressed with Sparrow Finlay’s work. When the Elder told him that she had no desire to join the Brotherhood, the doctor had been disappointed.

            Not as disappointed as Arthur though. The Institute was leaving traces everywhere but nothing concrete beyond their synths attacking Brotherhood forces in select locations known for their military hardware. Recon Squad Gladius, Danse’s personal team, were going to be clearing another military HQ today – Fort Hagen to the west. At least his efforts were bringing in plenty of synth carcasses to examine, even if it was only the Gen-1s, skeletal automations of metal and plastic. Sparrow’s story was the closest they had to actual proof of Institute actions.

             With a swallowing of distaste, the Brotherhood had made contact with a synth detective named Nick Valentine, who Danse had rescued from Vault 114 after he went missing. Despite being picked over a thousand times, there were still plenty of salvageable parts and concrete for the Brotherhood to use – and the Gen-2 synth, who was reportedly programmed with the personality and memories of a pre-War police detective, was willing to work gratis for vengeance against those who abandoned him and terrorised the Commonwealth. Arthur justified it to Proctor Quinlan and Lancer-Captain Kells, most conservative of his senior staff, as treating Valentine as a slightly more sophisticated version of a Mr Handy like the one they’d found up north, Cods-something. Even the Brotherhood used the Mr Handy robots, most of whom were programmed with problem-solving abilities. Valentine was an exceptionally sarcastic Mr Handy with investigative skills, that’s all.

            Vaults 75, 95, 111 and 114 had been investigated with contact stablished with a wary Vault 81, which was still inhabited. Each yielded useful technology, data and history even as the sociopathic science experiments of Vault-Tec made Arthur more determined to protect the Wasteland from such as the Institute.

            Vaults 75 and 111 had been the grimmest. What happened to the children beneath Malden Middle School made even the coolly detached Quinlan nauseous and Arthur, determined to pay the debt he owed Sparrow Finlay, joined the trek into Vault 111. Cold-shattered bodies trapped in locked cryostasis pods, each one meticulously numbered and attached to a file until the security staff revolted against the Overseer in what appeared to be a mutual kill. The Cryolator was an interesting piece of technology that the Scribes could pull apart when there was time to spare.

            Every one of those poor frozen souls had been buried in their home of Sanctuary Hills, which now served as a settlement for the remnants of massacred Quincy, including the last Minuteman Preston Garvey, who wouldn’t abandon his charges. Arthur admired the man’s dedication to his oaths and reassured him that the Castle had been cleared of mirelurks, his brethren avenged. It was a pity Garvey had refused to accept Maxson’s invitation to join the Brotherhood, claiming that he’d live as a Minuteman and die one too, but he’d agreed to open trade as he slowly rebuilt the local militia.

            Interestingly enough, Sparrow had contact with the Quincy survivors too, having hung around long enough to clear out some raiders and tend to their wounds before heading southeast. The Mr Handy in Sanctuary had worked for the Finlay family and refused to abandon the settlement, preventing anyone from entering the shattered ruins of Nate and Sparrow’s home, even after Arthur told him she was in Bunker Hill these days. “I promised I’d protect the home front until Miss Sparrow returns!” the robot declared stoutly.

            Maxson didn’t think that Sparrow would be returning to the settlement any time soon. But he and Danse had buried Nate Finlay in the backyard with the robot’s permission after explaining that she’d saved their lives. The Mr Handy had been sceptical until he described her right down to the patch of vitiligo around her left eye.

            As they walked away from Sanctuary to board the vertibird, Danse observed, “You’re obsessed with her.”

            Arthur refrained from dignifying that comment with an answer. He owed Sparrow Finlay a debt of honour for himself and his soldiers. A Maxson always acknowledged and paid what they owed.

            Now almost a week later, he was on another vertibird going to Nordhagen Beach, the first of the settlements to give allegiance to the Brotherhood of Steel and benefit by it, to collect their share of the first harvest. With the modified crops the Scribes had developed, they could manage another crop of tatos and mutfruit before the growing season ended, with enough time to let the soil rest under a covering of Brahmin dung and fertiliser for a few weeks.

            Kathleen and Miles were certainly efficient – they and another farmhand, a slender woman wearing a ragged hood and sunshades against the bright sun, had everything ready to be stacked onto the vertibird. Maxson was expecting to have the Knights help them with the last of the harvest.

            “Nice coat, soldier,” the farmer greeted with a grin as Maxson disembarked.

            “I get that a lot,” Arthur rasped, lips twitching at the familiarity. The people of the Commonwealth were less formal with the Brotherhood than those back in the Capital Wasteland – at least once they’d been helped. “How’s the crop?”

            “Pretty good,” Kathleen reported. “Even with your share, sir, we’ll be doing a bit better than we would have in a good harvest on our own.”

            “That’s what I like to hear.” Owyn and Sarah Lyons had been determined that helping the Wastelanders included sharing the agricultural advances of the Brotherhood freely. Arthur agreed with them, but only if the settlers gave allegiance to the order – no need to strengthen enemies, after all.

            He picked up one of the crates and grunted a bit. Arthur Maxson was probably one of the fittest, strong people in an order that required physical excellence from its members… and _he_ thought this box was heavy. Farmers handled these sorts of loads every day? His respect for them just increased considerably.

            “Red tag’s tato, purple tag’s mutfruit,” Kathleen said as she hefted a crate. Miles and the other farmhand, who hadn’t given her name and looked like she wanted to be elsewhere judging by the body language, carried crates as the Knights loaded them up. “Wasn’t as much spoilage as I thought would happen.”

            “Our Scribes know what they’re doing,” Maxson replied with a hint of pride. Senior Scribe Neriah’s experimental rad-resistant fertiliser was working wonders, even if it stank to high heaven.

            “Yeah. I hope those rumours about you lot staying are true. The Minutemen were good people, but the best they could do was keep the raiders to a reasonable level.” Kathleen sighed, handing a crate of mutfruit to a Knight. “You lot have cleared the bastards out and kept them away from here to Bunker Hill. I don’t think you appreciate how amazing that is.”

            “Given that the raiders are idiotic enough to fire on us when we patrol, total annihilation is the least we can do,” Initiate Raines said dryly.

            “Well, no one ever joined a raider gang or the Gunners because they believed in hard work,” Kathleen agreed.

            They worked for the next half-hour stacking crates – the harvest was so bountiful that Maxson called for a second vertibird to take the rest of the Brotherhood’s share. Three people produced this on their own?

            When they were done, Arthur filled a flask of water from the farm’s pump, deciding that the real heroes were probably the farmers. If they could sustain this level of work every day, they made his Paladins look lazy! “Have you considered putting in a water purifier and running some pipes to irrigate the crops?” he asked curiously, remembering one of Scribe Rothschild’s lectures on the subject from his youth as a Squire.

            “It’s mostly getting the power and the parts together that’s stopped us,” Kathleen responded as she massaged her hands. “You need copper, rubber, cloth, steel, ceramic and oil for the purifier itself, and more for the generator plus gears, and copper to connect it all up.”

            “What about a windmill design for the power generator?” Scribe Osridge asked as he counted the boxes of food. “You’d need a lot of steel and aluminium in addition to the gears, plus a little more copper, but it would produce enough power to run a decent-sized purifier _and_ some lights or a radio.”

            “Yeah, but we’d need to add in a machine gun turret or hire a guard to be on watch with that much power,” Miles countered. “I know the Brotherhood patrols in the day, but the Gunners in particular like to raid at night, and there’s always super mutants looking for easy meat.”

            “We should start nocturnal patrols in the two-mile zone around Boston Airport,” Initiate Raines suggested. “If we’re leaving such a massive gap in our defences…”

            “Make a suggestion to Lancer-Captain Kells,” Arthur advised as he reached for the coat he’d removed while hauling crates. He needed to start doing more calisthenics if he was going to do this sort of lifting and carrying more often.

            Kathleen’s expression was thoughtful. Building a small generator would let them irrigate more land for crops, which would benefit both sides. If every skerrick of material hadn’t been earmarked for defence and the reactivation of Liberty Prime as the ultimate weapon against the Institute, Maxson would have happily given them leave to salvage some. Generators weren’t amongst the dangerous technologies kept close by the Brotherhood in of themselves, after all.

            The farmer turned to the farmhand, who was filling a glass from the water pump. “Sparrow, you’re from Bunker Hill. Do you know who’d trade shipments of what we need for a fair price?”

            “You’d do better to buy or find bits and pieces of junk and break down a few cheap pipe pistols for the steel,” Sparrow suggested after sighing. “I admit, I only know how to scrap and trade, not actually build things like generators.”

            “As I said, you’re welcome to join us and expand the farm,” Kathleen offered gently.

            “Sparrow Finlay prefers to remain independent, more’s the pity,” Arthur observed as he shrugged his coat over his shoulders. “I offered her a position in the Brotherhood and she turned me down.”

            The Vault Dweller swallowed her water and put it down on a side table, every movement tense. “Let’s not discuss it here, _Elder_ Maxson. Kathleen and Miles don’t need to hear my dirty laundry.”

            “Agreed.” Maxson jerked his chin at a spot just out of earshot up the beach. “I have some information that pertains to what you told me anyway.”

            “Fine.” The woman strode away, steps springy with anger. Obviously she was still unhappy with the Brotherhood asking her about the tragedies in her past.

            The farmers and the soldiers exchanged looks as Maxson strode to join her. “She patched him up and he made her cry,” Raines muttered to Osridge.

            “And the Proctors wonder why he isn’t married yet,” the Scribe observed dryly as he checked off things on a list.

            Arthur wasn’t going to dignify that with an answer, instead focusing on giving Sparrow the news that he’d laid her husband and neighbours to rest. Hopefully it would make up for the sorrow he’d caused her the last time they’d met.

…

 _Of course_ she couldn’t pretend to know Maxson. Life wasn’t so kind to her lately.

            The man had removed his dignity with his coat, hauling crates of produce and talking to Kathleen courteously. No wonder his soldiers would follow him everywhere, talk about him with the same sort of reverence she once reserved for the saints.

            Sparrow rounded on the Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel once they were alone. “How are you going to put my emotions through the wringer today?” she demanded.

            Maxson stepped back, obviously startled by her hostile tone, and then he frowned. “I just thought you might want to know that during our investigations into the Institute, we found Vault 111 and gave your husband and neighbours a proper burial.”

            The anger flowed out of her like dirty water going down the drain, leaving her speechless and slightly ashamed. The Brotherhood of Steel were rigid and militant, but they weren’t complete assholes. “I… Thank you.”

            “There’s no need. The Brotherhood – and I – owe you a debt for your assistance at the Castle. The settlers from Concord also made it to Sanctuary and your Mr Handy is still waiting for you to come back.”

            Sparrow hung her head in shame as she thought of poor loyal Codsworth. The only companion from her previous life who still existed and she’d left him behind because she couldn’t stand the sight of anything which reminded her of Nate and Shaun. “I should go back. I… just can’t yet,” she admitted, ashamed.

            “What happened in Vault 111 was horrific and the Institute compounded it with their own special brand of cruelty,” Maxson told her, rasp remarkably gentle. “If they needed pure genes, they could have woken you all up and gained some from cheek swabs and blood tests. Instead, they chose to shoot a man in the head and rip the child from his arms as his helpless wife watched. That you have scars from that is more than understandable.”

            “You’re certain it’s the Institute?” she asked, raising her eyes to meet his earnest blue gaze.

            “There can be no one else with that level of technological sophistication and organisation in the Commonwealth,” the Elder replied. “We’re clashing with their Gen-1 synths on a regular basis now and Nick Valentine, a Gen-2 synth with the personality of a pre-War police detective, believes it fits their modus operandi.”

            “Nick Valentine?” Sparrow had heard the name in passing but thought it a strange coincidence. “Sarcastic do-gooder who chain smokes and loves old detective novels?”

            “You know him?” Maxson looked a little surprised.

            “I knew the BADTFL agent he was. Friend of my father’s. Had his brain scanned by the Commonwealth Institute of Technology after he contracted terminal cancer and his fiancée was murdered by some crook. Hoped it would help them find the bastard.”

            “Did it?”

            “I don’t know. The bombs dropped shortly after.” Sparrow hugged herself against the surge of emotions, too mingled to understand, that came with the news. “God, if you’re working with a synth, the Institute must be real. And pretty damned nasty.”

            “More than you realise,” Maxson said softly, grimly. “I know of at least one confirmed case where they sent an infiltrator synth in to execute the person he resembled and take his place in Bunker Hill. Danse executed the synth and rescued the man, Art.”

            “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Sparrow breathed. This was bigger than her, bigger than the grief that lingered in her heart. And it seemed like the only people fighting the Institute were the Brotherhood of Steel, harsh and heavy-handed as they were.

            “I’ve just shared classified information. I trust your discretion in keeping it to yourself,” Maxson added calmly. “If the Institute knows what we know…”

            “Yeah, I can imagine.” Sparrow shivered despite the heat. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

            “The debt is on our side. You owe us nothing.” Maxson paused, looking down at her intently. “I will avenge what was done to you and yours. By the time the Brotherhood of Steel is finished with the Institute, their name will become a cautionary tale for the ages.”

            She shivered again. “You’re talking about war.”

            “The Institute has been in a shadow war with the Commonwealth since its inception,” he answered grimly. “The open declaration was the execution of the settler delegates at a meeting to organise into a unified government.”

            Sparrow swallowed, suddenly feeling nauseous. Maxson was harsh and hard, honed by an endless war. But he had shown diplomacy and basic decency in dealing with others, a willingness to do whatever he asked of his soldiers, and the odd moment of gentleness. For some reason, she seemed to bring it out in him.

            “Do you know why we went to war with China?” she whispered. “Dwindling resources over the last few oilfields in the world. The year I was born, 2051, was when the United States ran out of oil. In the same year, the United Nations collapsed and the Resource Wars began. My father was drafted and spent the rest of his life in the military. Within ten years, Europe and the Middle East collapsed into squabbling city states, and by the time I was fifteen we had annexed Mexico and were fighting China in Alaska. In my first year of college at eighteen, Canada was all but annexed.”

            She turned away, looking over the ruins of Boston. “I was relatively sheltered because of Mother’s connections. She was a Boston Brahmin – think an old bloodline that could trace its ancestry back for nearly four hundred years – and we had many of the luxuries that others didn’t. She was in military intelligence and did her best to keep Dad in Canada for most of the war.”

            She sighed, remembering those bitter times. “By graduation from law school, we’d formally annexed Canada, and by the time I was in a car crash in ’74, the year before my father died and I met Nate, we’d pretty much told what was left of the world to fuck off and die.”

            “God…” She heard the shudder in the hardened soldier’s voice.

            “2075, I met Nate after he got leave to tell me and Mom Dad was dead – it was a hell of a match, those two, Boston Brahmin and Irish American who traced his ancestry back to the old Boston Irish organised crime syndicates. Both of them aristocrats in their different ways.”

            Sparrow’s laugh was bitter. “Nate was barely good enough for Mom, but she figured that since he was the first man I’d shown an interest in, she could make an exception so I could continue the sacred Ahern bloodline. Got married in late 2076 during the Boston food riots. Mom had a hell of a sense of timing.”

            “Apparently.” Maxson’s tone had more than a trace of irony in it.

            “Nate got sent back in early 2077 after we conceived Shaun, came back shell-shocked after the Chinese got thrown out of Anchorage.” Sparrow’s voice choked with tears. “He was home for two… fucking months. Because Mom was called down to Washington shortly after Shaun was born and Nate was in Alaska, I… collapsed mentally. Postnatal depression, they called it. I took Daytripper, a euphoric that enhanced social interaction, and Calmex, a sedative that steadied the nerves to improve balance and coordination, so I could play the part of the good little housewife for all our military neighbours.”

            She closed her eyes, tears burning through the lashes to run down her cheeks. “In eight weeks Nate got Mom to buy us Codsworth to help with Shaun and the household chores because I can’t cook to save a life, managed to wrangle some sense of control over himself and guilt his superiors into letting him raise awareness of veterans’ needs, and helped me get through my addiction.”

            Maxson’s nonjudgmental silence made it easier to get out the last few words. “I was cleared of addiction on October 21st and Nate was scheduled to speak at Fraternal Post 115 on the 23rd. Things looked a little clearer with the Chinese in retreat, yeah?”

            “And then the bombs fell,” Maxson observed grimly.

            “Yeah. I signed us up for a Vault a half-hour before they did.” Sparrow laughed and sobbed all at once. “Not sure it was the right decision, all things considering.”

            “You’re alive, here and not a feral ghoul,” the Elder of the Brotherhood pointed out quietly. “Thank you for telling me this, Sparrow. If you could bring yourself to record some holotapes for the Scribes, you would increase our understanding of the Great War from a civilian’s perspective – our order was founded by members of the military and their families.”

            “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it,” Sparrow agreed, wiping her cheeks.

            “An interesting proverb, one worth taking note of,” Maxson said quietly. “I’ve taken enough of your time. When you want to get those holotapes to us, just bring them to Boston Airport. I’ll let the gate guards know you’re coming.”

            She listened to him walk away and wondered why the wounds in her psyche felt a little less raw.

…

“Elder Maxson?”

            Danse’s gravelly tones were a welcome relief from the brooding Arthur had done since returning to the Prydwen. He knew the soldiers had questions and Initiate Raines did a good job of deflecting them by saying that she was a pre-War Vault Dweller who saved several Brotherhood lives, including the Elder’s own. That man was due a promotion.

            “The mission was a success, I assume,” he said, turning around from the spectacular view of Boston.

            “Of course.” Danse’s voice was a little reproachful for the implication of doubt and Maxson smiled inwardly. His best and most trusted friend was going to get a pleasant surprise when Ingram was finished with the upgrades to the Sentinel X-01 armour. “More than a success.”

            The Paladin laid out a plastic sheet on the couch before laying out several bloody bits of metal, including one with the hippocampus still attached. “Taken from the Institute asset known as Kellogg, a cybernetically enhanced mercenary known for his brutality in Diamond City.”

            “Not a synth?” Arthur asked.

            “Not a synth. The components are different.” Danse’s face was grim. “He’d holed up in Fort Hagen, expecting someone to come after him.”

            “Not the Brotherhood,” the Elder observed.

            “Not us,” Danse confirmed. “His exact statement was, I quote: ‘I knew the Commonwealth would chew that Vault bitch up and spit her out’.”

            Arthur sucked in a sharp breath. “Sparrow Finlay.”

            “Yes.” The Paladin sighed. “I had Haylen don civilian garments and go into Diamond City to question both Piper Wright, a reporter who is investigating the Institute, and Nick Valentine. It appears that Kellogg matched the description Sparrow gave us of the man who murdered her husband and took the baby… and was living for a while in a house in an abandoned part of town with a chestnut-haired, rosy-cheeked ten-year-old boy named Shaun.”

            “Damn. I spoke to her today. It would have been good to tell her the news.” Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It wasn’t a total loss. I was able to talk her into agreeing to give us some holotapes with her story on them. She lived through the entire Great War, you know that? It started, more or less, the year she was born.”

            “The Scribes would orgasm with joy,” Danse said with a chuckle.

            “At least I’ll have made _someone_ happy. I also managed to make her cry.”

            “I know, Raines told me.” There was a peculiar intonation to Danse’s growl that Arthur noticed.

            “What did he say?” The Initiate might not be getting that promotion after all.

            “His exact words were: ‘It would be a beautiful love story if the Elder didn’t make the Vault Dweller cry so much’.”

            “I appear to have a knack for pressing all her sore spots.”

            “Arthur.” Danse’s tone softened, becoming more familiar than he allowed himself to be most of the time. “Are you attracted to her?”

            “I am.” It was easy to admit it to his friend. All he’d thought about during Sparrow’s tearful recitation of her history was folding her into his arms and comforting her. Not the most honourable of things, especially after telling her he’d buried Nate Finlay.

            Danse’s expression was grave. “You can’t let her story, sad as it is, get in the way of planning the war against the Institute.”

            “I owe her, Danse. That queen mirelurk would have killed me if she hadn’t intervened.” Arthur looked up at his most loyal Paladin. “I know it’s not likely she’d become Lady Maxson, old friend. But I _can_ avenge what happened to her doing what we were already here to do.”

            “I wasn’t saying ‘Don’t court her at all’,” Danse corrected gruffly. “A pre-War Vault Dweller of proven fertility and competence is a hell of an asset, especially as she’s outside of the factional disputes in the Brotherhood. But she needs to be one of us, to fight in this war of ours, before she’s acceptable as Lady Maxson.”

            “In short, she must be a part of the Brotherhood.”

            “That’s what I’m saying. Keep her safe on the Prydwen, send her on civilian missions… But if you want the Brotherhood willing to spill their blood to protect her, she needs to prove she’d do the same.”

            Maxson closed his eyes. _Poor Sparrow to never escape the spectre of war._ And then he wondered why the thought occurred to him when war was what he’d always known in his lifetime.

            “She just wants peace.”

            “Then _don’t_ court her, Arthur. Win this war and leave her alone.” Danse’s voice was sympathetic but firm.

            “She looked like she was considering a few things,” he finally said. “I’ll let her make the next move.”

            He opened his eyes and looked to Danse. “Take those parts to the Scribes to examine. Hopefully they can give us some useful information.”

            “Of course, Elder Maxson.” Danse immediately returned to his grave formality. “Anything else?”

            “Not at the moment,” Arthur said, returning to brood once more. “Not at the moment.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death, violence, mentioned child neglect, drug addiction/use and PTSD, postnatal depression, fantastic racism, child soldiers and references to torture. Well, this story is going along much better (and in more manageable chunks) than the last one. Smut will come, I promise.

 

It took Sparrow a week to assemble what she wanted and enough caps to hire the help she needed. MacCready didn’t run cheap at 250 caps but he was worth every bit of it; she could throw in free medical care and maybe haggle him down a bit. Her reputation as a medic was solid in Bunker Hill and Goodneighbour after all.

            The mercenary was drinking in the Third Rail as always, Magnolia crooning on the mike while Whitechapel Charlie slung drinks alongside insults. Sparrow ignored them both to hone in on the sniper, taking a seat without preamble at his corner table. “I have a job for you,” she said bluntly.

            MacCready sat up, losing the indolent air he liked to affect in the Third Rail. “Well, I’ll be,” he drawled. “The Vault Dweller comes lookin’ for my aid again.”

            “I’ve never asked-“

            “Not you, another one I knew in the Capital Wasteland. Funny how history repeats itself is all.” The mercenary summoned Charlie over. “What’s your poison? I always buy a lady client her first drink.”

            “Shot of whiskey,” Sparrow immediately replied.

            “Bit strong for you, ain’t it?” MacCready looked a little amused.

            “MacCready, I was drinking neat whiskey from a shot glass when your ancestors were fucking four-legged, one-headed animals in the Appalachian Mountains,” Sparrow answered sweetly. “Now unless you’d like me to take my business elsewhere…”

            The mercenary’s eyes widened before he quickly handed over the caps for a shot of whiskey, Charlie chortling with glee at the insult. Sparrow suspected the Mr Handy would add that one to his repertoire.

            She accepted the whiskey and put truth to her words, swallowing the warm sweet fire in a single gulp and smiling without even clearing her throat as she handed the glass back to Charlie before he could leave.

            Her mother had taught her how to insult someone with a sweet smile and her father how to swallow whiskey properly. It looked like those skills had finally paid off.

            “I’m _not_ going to ask by what you meant, ma’am,” MacCready said, now properly respectful. “You know my standard fee?”

            “Two hundred caps and I’ll throw in free medical care up to a transfusion,” Sparrow countered.

            MacCready had paid her fees before. He nodded quickly. “Alright, what’s the job? I don’t do nothing that hurts kids.”

            “I’m offended you’d even think I’d ask that,” Sparrow retorted. “We’re scavenging in the old C.I.T Ruins and the surrounding buildings in Cambridge. Lots of old medical places there. I can surely find a few medical stocks and useful pieces of technology.”

            “Made be shorter than you think,” MacCready noted. “Brotherhood’s been through there a couple times.”

            “I was in and out of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology after a car crash nearly killed me,” Sparrow explained. “I know a few of the places – Greenetech Genetics, for instance – that the Brotherhood won’t.”

            MacCready nodded easily. The young man might be a bit rough but he was a thoroughgoing professional. “When do we leave?”

            “Now, if you’re relatively sober.”

            “Had two beers and was working on a third.” MacCready scratched behind his ear. “What if Brotherhood’s there?”

            “We withdraw. I owe them a favour.” She didn’t care what Maxson said on that point, it was she who owed him, not the other way around.

            “What if Institute’s there? Heard there’s synths been ‘round there forever.” MacCready shifted in his seat. “I _know_ Gunners have set up in Cambridge, quiet so the tin cans at the police station don’t find them. Why don’t we just say I’d rather not run into those baby-killing assholes and leave it at that?”

            “We run to the police station, let the Brotherhood wipe them out.”

            “Works for me.” MacCready picked up his beer and took a long pull from it while Sparrow counted out the caps in neat stacks. “I’ve got a thought on a distraction. You ever hear of the Combat Zone?”

            “Vaguely,” Sparrow admitted.

            “I’ve been there a time or two. Raiders are assholes but they don’t much like the Gunners.” MacCready swept the caps into a pocket. “If we leave tomorrow a little later, I can have a band of scum attacking the Gunners as a distraction. Hell, they might even take out a few synths.”

            Sparrow’s lips pursed. “I don’t like the idea of letting Raiders loose.”

            “Don’t worry, we can have the Brotherhood mop them up. Heard you’re good with them.” MacCready’s eyes were alight with curiosity.

            “We’ve done each other a few favours and they’re interested in my history.” Sparrow had already asked Piper Wright to run the recorded holotapes to Boston Airport. What she was going to do, she had to do without regrets or promises not kept.

            “Well, let me organise a distraction and we’ll stop at the Police Station on the way to the ruins,” MacCready said. “I got a feeling in my bones you’re not just looking for supplies, Lady Doctor.”

            Sparrow sighed and decided to be honest with him. “The Institute took my baby and murdered my husband. I want to get some kind of evidence I can give to the Brotherhood of Steel that’ll help them fight the bastards.”

            “What about the Railroad?”

            “They only care about freeing synths.” Sparrow shook her head. “I want the Institute destroyed and the ruins salted.”

            “Good. Brotherhood are assholes but the Railroads are dicks.” MacCready finished his beer and got to his feet. “I got a kid back in the Capital Wasteland. Couldn’t bring him here, I send the caps back home. I’ll help how I can, okay?”

            “Thank you…” Sparrow said softly, unexpectedly touched.

            “Go get some sleep. We’ll leave ‘round ten – will give the raiders plenty of time to soften the Gunners up while we go tell the Brotherhood about them. Then, while they’re cleaning up, we go check out this Greenetech place and clear it out before they can.” MacCready flashed a grin, showing rotten teeth. “Work for you?”

            “Sure.” Sparrow was a little uneasy about the plan but she had to trust MacCready. “I’ll meet you at the gate by ten.”

            “Done.” MacCready touched his hat and left.

            Sparrow took a deep breath and stood up. She hoped that this worked.

…

“Three scavengers came through to warn us about some raiders fighting with the Gunners over near the C.I.T Ruins,” Scribe Haylen reported as Danse and Maxson strode into the Brotherhood’s Cambridge base. “Should we investigate?”

            “Did they look trustworthy?” Danse asked the young woman.

            “One of them matched the description of that Vault Dweller, Sparrow? The second was Robert Joseph MacCready, a merc from Goodneighbour who’s known for hating Gunners. The third was some bloodthirsty woman high on Psycho.”

            _What the hell is Sparrow doing?_ Arthur thought as Danse glanced in his direction. He’d come down to investigate the base and assure the soldiers stationed here they weren’t forgotten.

            She’d sent her holotapes through the reporter Piper instead of coming herself. The trader from Bunker Hill he’d asked about her claimed she cancelled her long-term room rental at the inn and sold everything she owned but for the sniper’s rifle, 10mm pistol, ammo and medical supplies.

            “Seeing as we didn’t know Gunners were right under our noses, it wouldn’t hurt to send out a patrol to investigate in an hour or so when one side would have won,” Maxson finally said.

            “MacCready’s got ties to the Combat Zone,” Haylen added. “He might have set the fight up – he’s known for fighting smart whenever he can and having two groups of enemies to wipe each other out would be in his style.”

            “Getting us to clean up the mess?” Danse observed with a raised eyebrow. “Why would Sparrow Finlay work with someone like that?”

            “Salvaging something from the medical places around here? She gets a lot of her supplies like that.”

            Maxson froze as her likely intentions occurred to him. “No. She’s looking for information on the Institute.”

            _She’s going to get herself killed._

“Haylen, round up Gladius,” Danse said grimly. “If anyone will get a response from that synthetic scum, it will be her.”

            “ _She’s_ the woman Kellogg was expecting to come after him?” Haylen asked, eyes widening. “Good Lord, what would they want with her?”

            “Proven fertility, pure pre-War genes,” Maxson answered flatly.

            “Jesus.” Haylen turned around and went to get Knight Rhys, the newly promoted Squire Raines and Paladin Brandis, who’d asked to remain at Cambridge as part of Recon Squad Gladius.

            Danse turned around to face his commander. “You’re not going to like this, but that woman’s effectively bait. She’s entered the war, Elder Maxson, and I have to treat her like any temporary ally until we make contact.”

            “Understood,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. “I’m coming with you.”

            “Like hell.” Danse’s tone was clear: “Think with your head, not your cock.”

            “It’s going to take more than a five-man team, even with two Paladins, to deal with the remnants of the scum and any Institute interference,” Arthur answered mildly.

            “I’ll take your team. But _you_ are getting back in that vertibird and returning to the Prydwen.” Danse paused and added, “She has a sniper and a brawler of her own. I suspect she’ll repeat the tactics that worked at the Castle. I wouldn’t be using her as bait if I didn’t think she had a bad chance of survival.”

            Arthur nodded. “Fine. I’ll get back into the vertibird.”

            “Thank you.” The Paladin’s face gentled. “I know how you feel, but you need to put the Brotherhood above your personal wishes.”

            _I’ve been doing that my whole fucking life,_ Arthur thought sourly.

            Gladius soon moved out and Arthur walked up to the vertibird pilot. “Initiate, we’re covering Gladius.”

            “Yes, Elder Maxson,” the young woman replied as she fired up the vertibird and he boarded the aircraft, taking position at the mini-gun.

            He’d only promised to return to the vertibird after all. There was nothing stopping him from covering his best friend or the woman he was beginning to be more than simply attracted to. Those holotapes hadn’t just been a history, they’d been an intimate portrait of the Vault Dweller herself, and he’d listened to every last one of them.

            Sparrow had made her decision. He knew her well enough to know that she’d have given any information she found to the Brotherhood. Surely he could coax her into joining.

            Despite the seriousness of the situation, Arthur started to grin. He understood that administrative duties were part of being an Elder but at the heart of it, he was a Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel, born and bred for battle.

            Time to show this Commonwealth scum exactly what it meant.

…

“’The Gunners would be distracted by the raiders,’ he said! This doesn’t bloody well look like they’re distracted to me!”

            “I wasn’t expectin’ them to be in the first building we looked in!” MacCready shot back, reloading his sniper rifle and taking precise aim. Within moments, the last of the Gunner snipers were dead, leaving the foyer silent.

            “Fuck,” Sparrow cursed as she slung her sniper rifle over her shoulder and unholstered her pistol. “Anyone hurt?”

            “I’m good,” Cait assured her, reloading her combat shotgun. “Let’s go kill a few more Gunners.”

            “Just so you know, Sparrow, you could reconsider your recent life choices,” MacCready advised. “Leave the Institute to the Brotherhood.”

            “No. There’s only one synth. We can take it.”

            “A synth that has a whole Gunner squad shit- err, soiling themselves.”

            “One of them, three of us. I like the odds.” Cait was… violent. Cheerfully so.

            “Never thought I’d be the voice of reason ‘round here,” MacCready said with a sigh as he took point.

            The tight, winding corridors actually proved beneficial to the trio as they were able to sneak around and shoot various Gunners, most of whom were pants-pissing terrified of this ‘Courser’ synth. Sparrow was hoping that the Gunners would slow it down enough – injure it enough – to give them a fighting chance.

            They climbed higher through Greenetech Genetics, Sparrow grabbing anything useful and stuffing it in her satchel – meds and ammo, mostly – while MacCready collected weapons and Cait… Well, Cait took chems and usually used them on the spot. If she survived this, God had a plan for the woman.

            Finally they reached the elevator. It went up. Slowly. Then they were at the top floor and a bored-sounding male voice was interrogating the Gunners who survived.

            “Charming sort,” Cait muttered as the Courser executed a Gunner who couldn’t answer him. “World will improve by his leaving of it.”

            “Here, here,” Sparrow agreed grimly. There was a cold rage seething through her bones that demanded satisfaction for Nate and Shaun. Had something like this tormented her son for unknown reasons?

            There were no enemies beyond two turrets, easily destroyed, and soon they were facing a tall figure in a black coat that didn’t move in any way that was remotely human despite the outward appearance.

            The previous week had forced Sparrow to look at her past and compromise her morals for this one shot, a promise from an old woman who claimed Shaun was alive. Before the Courser could speak, Sparrow said clearly, “Z2-47, initialize factory reset. Authorization code Zeta-5-3-Kilo.”

            “How-?” The synth’s eyes widened before he dropped like a stone. Sparrow walked over and shot three bullets into his chest just to make sure.

            “The Sight’s always run in the Irish blood,” Sparrow said quietly. “Mama Murphy saw my past and offered a vision for the future. All I had to do was break a personal vow and give her some Jet.”

            “What’s wrong with using chems?” Cait demanded defensively.

            Sparrow looked over her shoulder. “Used to be addicted to them. I got some help to deal with it and I swore before God that I’d never use or supply them again.”

            “Pastor Clements says God forgives, so if you feel guilty about doing something that might help your son, go pray or something,” MacCready suggested as he pulled out a shotgun and walked over to the Gunners. Before the mercenaries could react, he shot each of the three that remained point-blank, killing them instantly.

            “The _hell_?” Sparrow demanded.

            “The Gunners are hunting me, lady. I got a son to live for and nothing I won’t do for him.” MacCready put the shotgun away. “Think you of all people would understand that.”

            “Parents are shite,” Cait muttered as she began to loot the dead. “Well, mine were.”

            Sparrow walked over towards the terminal she noticed and hacked it after a few goes. A wide-eyed girl, trapped in the locked-up section, bolted out as the doors opened and headed for the elevator.

            “You’re welcome!” MacCready yelled sarcastically after her.

            The sound of clanking reached Sparrow’s ears. “Looks like the Brotherhood’s here,” she observed with a sigh. “Saves us hauling this bastard’s carcass to them, I guess.”

            _Of course_ it was Maxson and Danse. Who else would follow her around?

            “Elder, Paladin,” Sparrow said dryly with an inclination of the head. “Meet one dead Courser for the Scribes to examine.”

            She’d never seen two hardened soldiers look like they’d been smacked in the back of the head before. Or maybe it was more of a resemblance to a stunned fish, eyes wide and mouths opening and closing in shock.

            “Elder Arthur Maxson himself,” MacCready said with a whistle. “You weren’t kidding when you said you’d done some favours for them if _he’s_ here.”

            Then he flashed a smile at the woman in the Scribe’s uniform. “Hey gorgeous. I didn’t know you hung around with the tin cans.”

            The insult, of course, broke the men out of their stunned state. Maxson levelled a death glare at MacCready as Cait was eyeing Danse appreciatively. “I love the smell of power armour grease and testosterone after a battle,” she said with a smile.

            Danse didn’t look amused. “The smell is rather… pungent.”

            “MacCready, Cait, meet Elder Maxson and Paladin Danse. Elder, Paladin, meet Robert Joseph MacCready and Cait.” Sparrow made quick introductions as the rest of the soldiers fanned in to collect the dead Courser and anything else that would be useful.

            “A pleasure,” Cait said with a slight smile. “I like me some beefcake.”

            “I didn’t think you were capable of this much carnage,” Arthur – so _that_ was his first name – rasped as he looked down at Sparrow.

            “The Courser did a fair share of it. But… after our talk, I decided to… go back home, see Nate’s grave. It’s lovely, by the way. Thank you.” Sparrow sighed and holstered her pistol, feeling vulnerable with that sky-blue gaze upon her. “One of the Quincy survivors, Mama Murphy, told me things that someone from this time shouldn’t know and told me she could give me a vision of the future in return for some Jet. She said Shaun was alive and I was desperate enough to give her some.”

            She looked down at the dead Courser. “The vision was true. The Sight’s always run in Irish blood. I just had to break a promise I made to Nate and Shaun before God to get the answer I needed.”

            “Today seems to be a day for breaking promises,” Danse noted dourly, glaring pointedly at Arthur.

            “I promised to get into the vertibird. Besides, if I hadn’t shown up, that raider with the missile launcher would have killed you,” the Elder retorted.

            “With all respect, we’ll discuss this – with the Proctors – later.” Danse turned to Sparrow, some of the anger leaving his face. “So you’ve stepped into the war.”

            Sparrow hugged herself under that hard gaze. “I guess I have.”

            “Alone, you can do little to nothing against the Institute,” Danse continued grimly. “Gladius – my personal team – got the bastard who killed your husband and son. He was expecting you for some reason. And before that, he’d been living in Diamond City with a chestnut-haired boy who looked a lot like you called Shaun.”

            “That’s fucking creepy,” Cait observed.

            “I can imagine several reasons why the Institute would want a pre-War female survivor of proven fertility and pure – non-irradiated – genetics,” Maxson added softly. “None of them particularly pleasant and all of them…”

            “You have to join the Brotherhood,” Danse said firmly. “The other choice is to keep you under protective custody until the Institute is defeated.”

            “What about my allies?” Sparrow asked warily.

            “They’re welcome to join you or leave of their own accord,” Arthur said quietly.

            “In that case, I’m out of here before he changes his mind,” MacCready promptly announced. “Good luck, Sparrow. I’ll see you in Goodneighbour some time.”

            He left after touching his cap, heading for the elevator.

            “Do I get any power armour if I join up?” Cait asked thoughtfully.

            “You’d need to get clean from the chems first,” Danse retorted flatly. “The Brotherhood of Steel relies on our own prowess and the weapons we wield, not that crap.”

            “Take it from someone who was addicted to chems,” Sparrow agreed softly. “It’s a hell of a way to live.”

            Cait paused before shrugging and turning to leave.

            “Nice to see they had my back,” Sparrow observed with a sigh.

            “They mightn’t, but we do if you’ll let us,” Danse said as she looked back at them. “You only need to remain with us until the Institute is defeated, though I hope you’ll see the benefits of a lifetime membership.”

            She glanced at Arthur. His blue eyes burned like the flames of the Bunsen burner she’d sterilised the needle which sewed his wound shut in. And she knew that he’d come for her because… he cared.

            Not since she lost Nate had someone cared what happened to her. Not even herself.

            “I’ll do it,” she agreed. “I’ll join you. At least until the end of the war.”

…

As soon as she was on the Prydwen in a Brotherhood uniform, Knight-Captain Cade snapped Sparrow up and had her working in the medi-bay tending to the grunt work of healing injured soldiers.

            Maxson stood before the Proctors and Lancer-Captain Kells, the dead Courser at his feet as they watched him with keen eyes. “If I had not engaged the raiders in the vertibird, Paladin Danse would be likely dead and we wouldn’t have a Courser,” he announced calmly. “Or a pre-War survivor with effective medical skills who managed to locate the reset code and shut down said Courser.”

            Elder he might be but these people supported his rule. They honoured him, perhaps even idolised him, but even the greatest leader answered to his soldiers.

            “I’ve no problem with your actions,” Kells said brusquely. “Aside from the semantics with Danse. But you two can sort that out.”

            “Same here,” Ingram said calmly. “We have ourselves some genuine Institute technology to study and a whole load of new materials for Liberty Prime.”

            “Excellent,” Maxson said, looking to Quinlan and Teagan.

            “I find your attitude towards your own safety cavalier at best, Elder Maxson, downright neglectful of your responsibilities at worst,” the cat-loving Proctor said severely. “Only that we have gained considerably from this reassures me. However, _I_ would prefer that you don’t leave the Prydwen until it’s time for the ground assault on the Institute.”

            “I will continue my weekly missions with the men,” Arthur informed Quinlan firmly. “But they will be strictly grunt missions with little chance of violence.”

            Teagan stroked his beard as he shifted on the couch next to Ingram. “You’ve made considerable effort to recruit this Sparrow Finlay after encountering her a couple times,” he noted with a sly glint in his eye. “Smart, attractive, pure genetics, proven fertility. Planning on breeding some little Maxsons to get Quinlan’s jockstrap out of its wad?”

            “I do not wear a jockstrap nor is it in a wad!” Quinlan snapped at the requisitions Proctor.

            “Don’t be an ass,” Ingram said, rolling her eyes at Teagan.

            “As distastefully as he put it, the question’s a valid one,” Kells countered. “I’ve listened to her holotapes – we all have. My concern is that Initiate Finlay will fall back to chems if she’s under undue stress again.”

            “The woman’s been ‘under undue stress’ since she left the Vault after witnessing her husband’s murder and son’s kidnapping. She’s also been living in Bunker Hill and Goodneighbour,” Maxson answered calmly. “I think if she was going to hit the chems by now, she would have done so. Her last interaction with chems was to give some Jet to a psyker who provided her with the Courser’s reset code and she is rather ashamed of that decision despite the positive outcome.”

            Kells nodded slowly. “I’ll give her a chance.”

            “As for the rest of it, that is between the lady and I. She still mourns a dead husband and lost son,” Arthur rasped harshly. “I’m attracted to her, more than attracted – but I won’t go where I’m not welcome.”

            Ingram tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Works for me, Elder. We’ll sound her out, see what sort of person she is.”  
            “I’ll make sure she learns the proper protocol and Litany,” Quinlan added, his demeanour coolly detached once more. “If I’m understanding the amount of study a ‘lawyer’ had to undergo correctly, she’ll learn the Codex in no time.”

            “’Lawyer’?” Teagan asked.

            “One who studied the legal codes of pre-War society and served a variety of roles from accuser to defender to judge, depending on ability and calling,” Quinlan explained. “I believe, if I understand the context of her history correctly, she was going to apply her knowledge to a military setting once the war was over.”

            “Huh.” Teagan looked thoughtful. “Ah, what the hell. I’ll back her so long as she doesn’t screw up. We need little Maxsons running around to get the Western Elders’ pants unwedgied.”

            “I’m _so_ flattered you hold such confidence in my ability to win over a grieving widow,” Arthur observed dryly.

            “You can be charming. Rarely, but it’s happened.” Teagan was completely unrepentant.

            “If this hearing is over, I have an apology to make to Danse,” Arthur said. “You’re dismissed.”

            They took the hint and filed out, Ingram pausing at the doorway to the command deck. “I’ll make sure Teagan keeps his mouth shut,” the legless, frame-confined Proctor promised quietly. “And get the Sentinel armour ready. I hope you have the cakes on you.”

            “I do. Thank you.” The last thing he needed Sparrow to believe was that he wanted her solely for her womb.

            She nodded and headed out.

            He called for Danse and waited for the big Paladin to arrive. “I’m sorry,” Arthur said over his shoulder once he heard the clank of power armour. “I lied by implication to you and it was wrong.”

            “It was,” Danse agreed softly. “I understand that deception is sometimes necessary, even to the soldiers. I just wished you trusted me enough to fulfil the mission with the people I had.”

            Arthur sighed and nodded, accepting the implied rebuke. “They should have chosen someone else to be an Elder,” he said with a sigh. “At heart, I was born to be a Paladin.”

            “Paladins become Elders,” Danse pointed out. “No one else can keep the Brotherhood united, Arthur.”

            “I know. God, I fucking know.” Maxson allowed his bitterness to flavour the rasp of his voice. “The Elders, their egos and factions…”

            “If we win this war, we’ll have achieved the greatest victory for the Brotherhood since the defeat of the Enclave,” Danse said quietly. “That will surely give you sway with them.”

            “I _have_ sway, Danse. Don’t get me wrong. But so do they.” Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “I never asked for this. But it’s my burden to bear. Do you blame for wanting someone to help me carry what even you can’t?”

            “Of course not.” The Paladin’s voice was gentle, an odd inflection to his words that Arthur couldn’t catch and knew Danse would never explain.

            He decided to change the subject. He reached over for the bag on the table and pulled out a full box of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes. “I owed you an apology and here is my sorry gift,” he said, turning around to face the Paladin.

            Danse’s dirt-brown eyes lit up greedily. Arthur thanked God that the Institute wouldn’t think to bribe the Paladin, because he would do almost anything for the cakes. “I should probably share these,” he said reluctantly, eyeing the box with undisguised yearning.

            “No, they’re all yours,” Arthur said with a wry smile.

            “Thank you.” Danse managed to remain grave until the box was in his hands. “Permission to retire, Elder?”

            “Permission granted to stuff yourself sick with cakes,” Maxson said, actually grinning.

            Danse saluted and then strode off for his quarters before anyone could catch him with the cakes and force him to share. When he was gone, an exhausted, weary-looking Sparrow was there.

            “I’ve tended to everyone Cade and I could, then underwent a _very_ thorough physical,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck with a sigh.

            “I was hoping you’d get some rest first, but I guess that engagement with the super mutants in Trinity Tower caused more injuries than I thought,” Arthur apologised. “How are you?”

            “Knackered.” Sparrow hugged herself, a sign of vulnerability from the Vault Dweller. “And a little annoyed. I didn’t realise fertility and non-irradiated genes were so bloody important to the Brotherhood.”

            “You’re the healthiest person on the Prydwen, probably in the Commonwealth,” Maxson told her carefully. How prying had Cade been? “And the Brotherhood is… like your Boston Brahmins, especially the upper echelons. Marriages are often arranged, though both parties are given a chance to object if the planned union is truly abhorrent to them and an attempt made to find spouses who are psychologically compatible.”

            “Ah.” The sound was more understanding than he expected. “Mom was the last of the Ahern line, so she chose my dad because she liked him, not because of some social reason. Nate and I were truly in love – he was a rock of a man, always there when you needed him – and while she wasn’t enthusiastic about the union because he was a grunt, she didn’t oppose it either.”

            “Elders are given _some_ leeway,” Arthur admitted with a sigh. “But even we must have sound reasons for any union.”

            “Like proven fertility and ‘pure’ genes?” Sparrow’s question was very pointed, a stiletto placed against his belly.

            He met her eyes squarely, saw the rich brown orbs widen. “I found you attractive the first time I met you,” he told her softly. “Not because I knew you were fertile but because you aided me and my soldiers without having to be bought or asked.”

            “I demanded a price later,” she countered.

            “That was a reasonable request for compensation,” Arthur retorted. “As for the rest… You can tell me no, here and now, and I will go to the Proctors and tell them you’re not interested. I will respect your choice in this.”

            “Was what you said about the Institute wanting me a lie?” The stiletto was at his belly again.

            “No, that was honesty. A fertile woman of pure genetics could provide many eggs for their twisted purposes.”

            “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she sighed. “This world is profoundly fucked up, you know that?”

            “Yours wasn’t much better,” he pointed out.

            “Good point.” Sparrow’s tone was decidedly sour. “So what’s going to happen if I don’t say no? You drag me off to the closest thing to a priest the Brotherhood has and we swear on a holy cog or something?”

            “The Brotherhood doesn’t have priests. Anyone of Proctor rank or above can witness a wedding between members of the order.” Arthur saw the twist of her lips and smiled reassuringly. “I would court you as much I can, as much I know how, if you’d let me.”

            “You actually care,” she said softly. “Since Nate died, I haven’t had that. Someone caring about me.”

            “Do you care about me?” he dared to ask, dared to hope.

            “I think I could learn to,” she whispered. Less than he wanted but more than he expected.

            “Are you saying ‘yes’?”

            “I’m not saying ‘no’. I… need to find Shaun before I can make plans for the future.”

            Arthur nodded in acknowledgement of her reasoning. He could respect that, especially since she believed her son dead.

            “Then may things turn out as we both wish, Sparrow Finlay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warnings for death, violence, mentioned child neglect, drug addiction/use and PTSD, postnatal depression, fantastic racism, child soldiers and references to torture. Smut! I have a particular head-canon that women with signs of proven or visible fertility are considered rather attractive in the Wasteland.

 

By the end of her second week on the Prydwen, Sparrow was intimately familiar with the various injuries and illnesses that the Brotherhood suffered in their war against the Institute. Knight-Captain Cade had pronounced her competent enough to deal with the grunt work of stitching wounds, setting bones, applying ointments to burns and brewing up the Wasteland’s equivalent of medications while he saved his expertise for the difficult cases. When he found out that she was O-, the man practically orgasmed and put her down for a donation every eight to ten weeks. She might have been pissed about it except that every Brotherhood soldier in good health who didn’t see regular active duty – Scribes mostly – had to donate to help those who were.

            Proctor Ingram drilled her on her knowledge of technology and when she discovered that Sparrow knew how to scrap things with enough finesse to salvage useful things like screws and gears, assigned her to that duty when there wasn’t a rush at the medi-bay. There were plenty of soldiers who knew how to fire and even mod guns, but not enough who knew how to take the excess weapons apart for their precious components.

            Quinlan quizzed her on everything she knew about pre-War life, her explanations often seguing into philosophical discussions about then vs now or interpretations of the Litany and Codex, the Brotherhood’s code of conduct. His grey-black tabby Molly loved scratches behind the ear as they talked and because she liked the cat, the Proctor defrosted just a little towards her.

            Proctor Teagan was rough and ready; he wouldn’t have been out of place in Bunker Hill. He also kept her apprised on the betting pool that ran on the Prydwen, the current focus being her and Arthur’s relationship – the assumption was that she’d accept his courtship – with the odds placed on how soon she would have little Maxsons. Otherwise, she advised him on which traders were fair to trade with and helped do inventory once a week.

            Lancer-Captain Kells was the most wary of her because of the chem addiction she’d confessed in her historical holotapes. Sparrow understood the attitude and knew only time could convince him she was done. He mostly had her providing intelligence on what she knew about the Commonwealth, especially places where tech could be salvaged or settlements sponsored. The northwest was now linked together thanks to the Minutemen, who were polite but standoffish because of the Brotherhood stripping their old base of the Castle down to the bone, and the Brotherhood were expanding to the southeast. The area between Diamond City, Bunker Hill and Goodneighbour was essentially neutral territory.

            In short, Sparrow was being kept busy from waking to sleeping, crawling into her narrow bed exhausted and waking up with gummy, gritty eyes after nightmares of a boy with her hair and Nate’s eyes being tortured by people in lab coats. On the fifteenth day of her stay on the Prydwen, she’d had enough and after a cold shower to wake her up, pulled on a fresh uniform to go find Arthur.

            He was seated on one of the two couches in the command centre observation deck, eating what looked like muffins slathered with mutfruit jam. The Brotherhood had taken control of a large island to the south of the Castle and after driving off the mirelurks by activating a rare sonic beacon, had set up a large settlement that could likely rival Sanctuary up north. The razorgrain grown there probably provided the flour for the muffins.

            Sparrow couldn’t remember the last time she had baked goods and her stomach growled before she could open her mouth to say hello.

            The way those bright blue eyes lit up when he saw in the doorway reminded her of Nate with a pang. Her husband had always been happy to see her, even at her most wretched and wrecked, because like Arthur, Nate had been a guardian of those weaker than himself.

            She smiled and the harsh lines of that scarred face softened a little. “Here for me or the muffins?” Arthur asked gently, holding out the intact one he’d obviously just spread with jam for her.

            “For you with the muffins as a bonus,” she answered, accepting the still-warm baked good and biting into it. Oh God, fresh butter and a sweet tangy jam that was to die for. Whoever was on mess hall duty today should open up a bakery.

            When she was finished with the muffin, she opened her eyes to see Arthur watching her with a slightly peculiar expression. “I see you like muffins,” he observed breathlessly.

            “I haven’t had baked goods since… forever,” she admitted embarrassedly. “Fancy Lads Snack Cakes aren’t the same.”

            “It took us a few tries to make a decent flour from the razorgrain, but it’s delicious,” Arthur agreed, patting the couch next to him. “Please join me?”

            She sat down obediently, sinking into the surprisingly comfortable cushions. The couch she and Nate had was a deep crimson-

            Sparrow shut off that line of thinking. Arthur deserved her full attention, not her getting lost in memories of a dead man.

            “How are you settling in?” Arthur asked, shifting slightly so that their knees touched. Even though the fire-resistant fabric of their uniforms, his flesh was warm and hard.

            It had been two hundred and ten years, six months and Sparrow didn’t know how many days since she’d just sat with someone who wasn’t miserable, in pain or wanting something from her.

            “I’m settling in,” she reassured him. “Busy, but aren’t we all?”

            His blue eyes flickered over her features. “Are you being worked too hard? You look exhausted-“

            “Trouble sleeping,” Sparrow interrupted hastily.

            “What’s wrong?” His voice was earnest. Not barking commands as he did to the rest of the crew or the rare display of wryness when in Danse’s presence. Just… earnest. A flash of the young man he should have been, not the general of the most powerful military force in the Commonwealth.

            “Nightmares,” she admitted. “About Shaun and what the Institute probably did to him.”

            Arthur closed his eyes. “We’re looking for the bastards, I swear. But it’s like trying to find the centre of a radstorm. Our only leads are the Courser and the remains of Kellogg but the chips they both had are encoded beyond our current ability to break.”

            “Chips?” Sparrow asked, taking his hand and rubbing it comfortingly. She knew the Brotherhood were trying, she really did.

            “Both attached to the brain-“ Arthur opened his eyes, smiling as she held his hand, and then narrowed as he took in the expression on her face.

            “Dr Amari at the Memory Den,” she promptly said. “I _know_ she can evoke past memories and I’m fairly certain she’s got connections to the Railroad. If she can’t find anything, no one can.”

            “And the Brotherhood can’t just march into Goodneighbour to demand answers,” Arthur said with a sigh.

            “Not a Knight or Paladin, but Haylen’s got a good working relationship with a few people there, and I know Hancock personally.”

            Arthur’s lips twisted in distaste. “A ghoul.”

            “Who’s one of the better leaders in the Commonwealth despite his, ah, lifestyle choices.” Sparrow tilted her head at the Elder. “You’re already working with Nick.”

            “Nick is a more sophisticated version of a Mr Handy,” he countered. “I hear Hancock chose to become a ghoul to piss off Mayor McDonough.”

            Sparrow wrinkled her nose. “That’s a choice I can almost understand. The man is a slimy ass who feels… off. I don’t know how to articulate it but he’s a little _too_ much the sleazy politician. Does that make sense?”

            “You’d know sleazy politicians better than I,” Arthur agreed with a wry smile. “The Elders are politicians but they aren’t sleazy.”

            Sparrow would bet there was a lot of behind the scenes horse trading that Maxson knew nothing about. He was young and direct whereas the other Elders likely had a decade or two more on him at least.

            His thumb slowly began to stroke across the back of her hand, light as a feather, and Sparrow was surprised at the flash of heat she felt at the touch. When was the last time she’d made love?

            _The day Shaun was conceived,_ she realised bleakly. Her own postnatal depression, chem addiction and Nate’s absence had killed her libido.

            She looked into Maxson’s eyes and felt the hot, harsh hunger in his gas-blue gaze.

            They moved simultaneously, mouths coming together like the waves hitting the shore; he was the immovable object, she the irresistible force. He pushed her down on her back against the couch, his frame a bulwark of sinew and muscle and bone against the arch of her body, a leg between her thighs that rubbed in the right place as she bucked her hips with sudden need.

            In this, as in war and in command, there was no uncertainly in Arthur Maxson. He rubbed his wickedly scarred cheek against hers when his lips weren’t devouring her mouth, leaving it swollen from the nips and sucking. His body rocked, arched like a sinuous thing, the fabric of his uniform coarse against hers; his battlecoat, smelling of polished Brahmin hide and ozone, hung over her like a tent.

            Nate’s touch had been softly, almost smugly possessive; she was his treasure, the finest thing he’d never expected to have.

            Arthur was raw force barely checked by an adamantine will; the charisma and the power scorching in its intensity. He assumed she was strong enough to handle it, his thumb hooking into the ring pull of her uniform as he paused, eyes burning and yearning for what lay beneath.

            “Yes,” she sighed, needing this, needing the cleansing fire to burn away what was, sear closed the lingering wounds of the Institute’s actions. There would be consequences from this, no doubt, but-

            He pulled down the tab to bare her neck for his mouth, beard scratching against her skin, and she lost track of her thoughts.

…

Arthur thought he was going to spill watching Sparrow eat a muffin. Then she took his hand, rubbing it soothingly. And when he returned the favour, her brown eyes ignited and he knew that he had to kiss her.

            God but she responded so sweetly. Her body arched under his as he pulled down the zipper, a moan as wanton as the noises she’d uttered when eating the muffin coming from her kiss-swollen lips. Around them the Prydwen stirred, the breakfast routine underway, but he was more interested in tasting every inch of Sparrow’s flesh – rosy where the tan faded – that he could manage.

            He pulled her arms from the sleeves of the uniform and undid the bra to reveal a pair of soft breasts above a belly wrinkled with the white lines of motherhood. Arthur hardened even further, something he didn’t think possible, as he thought about that belly ripe and swollen with his children. It fired up the most primitive parts of his brain, the urge to rut and mate, and he ground his hips against her belly.

            Clever fingers pulled the coat from his shoulders, the uniform from his torso as he mouthed at her breasts until the nipples were hard and pinkish-red. Arthur wasn’t sure how they’d gone from discussing the evidence they had from the Institute to _this_ but he didn’t particularly care.

            When fingers danced across his own nipples, he jerked violently, almost coming at the touch. “No,” he rasped hoarsely. “In you. Please.”

            She ground against his hip, the wetness of her core seeping through the fabric of his uniform, and Arthur decided they both still had too many clothes on.

            Brotherhood uniforms were rip-resistant but her underwear, fragile dingy white cotton, was not. His fingers parted her nether lips and delved into that wetness, tight and hot around them, until she moaned his name once more.

            He’d vowed to court her, to win her over slowly, but his hunger – and hers – was too much to deny. Hooking an arm under her knee to give him easier access, Maxson thrust inside until he could go no further, her hips lifting to fit him. Her eyes were wide and needy, lips red and swollen, and her torso bore the marks of his mouth stark against the rosy skin.

            “Arthur,” she breathed again, inner walls tightening around his cock until he grunted in pleasure-pain. “Please?”

            He let go of her knee, braced one arm on the edge of the couch for greater traction, buried his face in the join of neck and shoulder, and forced himself to make a few easy thrusts until she was nice and open. When her right leg locked around his waist to keep him within her, he allowed himself to release that tenuous control and drive them both to climax with hard, frantic thrusts and the seed boiling in his balls for release.

            It came suddenly, a surge of heat and force that left him seeing white and hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, her body shuddering around his a moment later as she slid her hand between them to manipulate her clit. He caught her fingers and intertwined his around them, rubbing at that slippery nub of pleasure until she climaxed again.

            “Ungggh,” she groaned, half-sated and half-aching, once she had her breath again.

            Arthur allowed himself to relax, still buried deep in her, and blanketed her with his body. If the bright light of day wasn’t shining through the windows, he could have fallen asleep like this. If he had his say, he would get the chance.

            Sparrow blinked up at him, sated and sweet with those kiss-swollen lips. Arthur brushed his lips across them and rubbed his beard against her smooth cheek with a pleased sigh.

            “Muffins and jam normally don’t make me like this,” she finally said, almost challengingly.

            Arthur chuckled and kissed her forehead tenderly. This moment of peace… It was something he hadn’t had in a very long time. “I understand.”

            Though he had every intention of discovering what mutfruit jam tasted like when smeared on her breasts one day soon.

            Sparrow’s fingers twined through the longer locks that crowned his head, a gentle caress that he found he enjoyed. “Everyone heard us, didn’t they?” she asked in a slightly chagrined tone.

            “Probably. Secrets are rarely kept on the Prydwen.”

            “Ah hell.” It was a weary, wary exhalation of breath. “The Proctors are probably planning the wedding, aren’t they?”

            “Maybe not the wedding, but definitely the formal betrothing ceremony,” Arthur confirmed, arms tightening around her. The idea of her, bound to him – his to hold and protect and fuck – was enough to make his cock twitch again.

            “I want to find out what happened to Shaun. Or at least get answers from Amari and the Railroad,” she said, eyes daring him to deny her this.

            He wanted to. He wanted to keep her on the Prydwen, safe. But the bonds between them were fragile – they’d moved too fast. So reluctantly, Arthur nodded.

            “On one condition,” he breathed against her cheek.

            “What’s that?”

            “Once you have the information we need, you return to me immediately.”

            Sparrow paused and nodded slowly. He sighed in relief. She knew how to survive down there.

            “I want you back in three days.”

            “I can do that.”

            “Thank you.” Arthur shifted and groaned as his cock decided it had rested enough, hardening while still within her. “Again?”

            “Yes.”

            He had her twice more before the sun reached noon, the press of their ignored duties too heavy to ignore. As she pulled on her uniform, face a complicated mixture of emotions, he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes.

            “Did I hurt you?” he asked, alarmed at the thought.

            “I-no.” The answer was quick and reassuring. “This isn’t your fault.”

            He pursed his lips and pulled on his own uniform. He needed a shower before knuckling down on that paperwork. “I’ll see you soon?”

            “In three days,” she promised. “I might as well head out now.”

            “I’ll have a vertibird take you and the chips to Goodneighbour.”

            “Thank you, Arthur.” Sparrow paused and added, “For everything.”

            He strode forward, uniform half-open, and kissed her. She would be Lady Maxson. He was certain of it.

…

Sparrow was still aching by sunset as she paid for a room at Hotel Rexford, mind churning over everything that she’d discovered at the Memory Den. Starting the day with Arthur Maxson fucking her raw and ending it with a stroll through Nate’s killer’s head certainly made for a memorable time.

            Tomorrow she would head directly to Old North Church and make contact with the Railroad. Amari said they were the only ones capable of deciphering the chip, much to Sparrow’s chagrin, and only God knew what price they would enact for their aid.

            Once the room was paid for, she decided to visit the Third Rail and assure MacCready that she was okay. She couldn’t fault the merc for bugging out when the Brotherhood allowed him to leave though it still stung a little. She wondered how Cait was going; the woman hadn’t even been paid for her part in the battle. Sparrow would need to fix that.

            Much to her surprise, Scribe Haylen was sitting at the table in civilian wear, talking to Cait and MacCready. The woman had a ponytail of ginger hair beneath the Scribe’s hat she normally wore and Sparrow began to understand the comment that the merc made when he met Haylen last time. “Can I join you?” she asked quietly once she was at the table.

            “Sure,” MacCready said cheerfully, gesturing to the last seat. “So, you managed to escape the Brotherhood or…?”

            “On leave for a couple days for… personal reasons,” Sparrow temporised as she sat down.

            “Personal reasons?” Haylen asked in some surprise.

            “Tracking down some leads the Brotherhood can’t, Haylen.”

            “Ah.” The off-duty Scribe knew when not to press and instead waved Charlie over. “Drink?”

            “Please. I just had an unpleasant trip to the Memory Den.” Sparrow wouldn’t – couldn’t – go into detail in front of near strangers.

            “You look like you got a bad batch of Daddy-O,” Cait observed with rough sympathy. “Kind of aroused but nauseous at the same time.”

            “It’s been an interesting day. And please don’t ask questions. I really don’t want to talk about it.” Sparrow passed over a small purse of caps to Cait. “For helping me at Greenetech.”

            “Wait, you’re paying me?” The woman’s eyes widened in shock.

            “Well, you _did_ help me and I figured you were in the same trade as MacCready.”

            Cait lowered her gaze. “MacCready won my contract from Tommy Lonergan after he killed all the bloody raiders at the Combat Zone.”

            “I also said you were free to go whenever you wanted,” MacCready told her.

            “Caps. For myself.” The stunned tone told Sparrow more than she wanted to know about Cait’s past.

            “You earned them,” she said as Charlie drifted over, wanting to know what she’d like.

            “…Thanks.” Cait stuffed the purse into her pocket like someone was going to take the caps from her. Maybe someone had.

            “You’ve got a lot of potential as a merc but you need to kick the chems,” MacCready said, picking up the thread of a previous conversation.

            “I _can’t,_ ” Cait said mulishly.

            Sparrow narrowed her eyes, switching to medic mode and noted the bloodshot eyes, lacklustre skin and brittle hair. “Are you coughing up blood?” she asked the brawler gently.

            Emerald eyes widened. “How’d you guess?”

            “Sparrow’s the chief medic directly under Knight-Captain Cade on the Prydwen,” Haylen explained.

            “And _I_ was addicted to chems. The rehabilitation programme had a couple Psycho addicts – like you – who were coughing up the linings of their stomachs.” Sparrow was quiet but implacable. “If you don’t see a doctor or take some Addictol soon, you’ll be dead, probably within six months.”

            “Can’t afford the doctor. I’m addicted to more’n Psycho.” Cait’s expression was miserable.

            Sparrow pulled out the first aid kit she still carried with her and got out the Addictol. “Consider this a bonus on your pay for the Greenetech job. I know the inhaler looks like Jet, but once you catch a whiff of it, you’ll know it smells very different.”

            Cait stared at her. “Why do you care? You’re like some big Brotherhood person now.”

            “I’m still an Initiate,” Sparrow protested.

            “Not if the Elder gets his way,” Haylen muttered.

            “As I was _saying_ ,” Sparrow continued, looking at the Scribe pointedly. “Addictol can cure all addictions, unless it’s a severe one. Then… well… I know of an experimental one the Brotherhood has acquired, but we don’t know if it will work.”

            “Why do you care?” Cait repeated.

            “Because it’s my job to save lives. And I owe you one.”

            “I can work with that.” Cait took the Addictol and huffed it. Then she coughed violently, blood splattering her lips. “Fuck, my chest burns.”

            Sparrow grabbed a stimpak and jabbed into her upper arm until her breathing eased. “Jesus, how many hits of Psycho were you doing a day?” she asked in awe.

            “Four or five,” Cait rasped.

            “And you’re still alive. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.” Sparrow looked to Haylen. “Would Cade accept an outside volunteer to test that treatment we got from Vault 95?”

            “Given that Cait expressed an interest to join up, he should,” Haylen agreed as Cait took deep hoarse breaths. “’Course, she’d have to join up if she survives.”

            Sparrow nodded. “Well, there’s your choices, Cait. Die coughing up blood or at least give the Brotherhood a try if this cure works.”

            “Miserable there and want someone else to suffer with you, eh?” the brawler asked with a dark smirk.

            “The Brotherhood isn’t perfect but they do protect their own,” Haylen said quietly. “If you’re willing to temper your combat experience with some discipline, reckon you could be a Knight and have your own set of power armour.”

            “Only if the sexy tin can who follows that Maxson chap gives me a kiss.”

            Sparrow and Haylen exchanged awkward glances. “Umm, I think you need to be a guy for that to happen,” the Scribe observed wryly.

            “Bollocks. My luck’s shite, I tell you.” Cait sighed and looked to the table. “Never got to make a choice since I killed – the people who sold me.”

            “You have one now,” Sparrow said softly.

            “What the hell. Let’s go.” Cait went to stand up but Sparrow waved her down.

            “I’m not leaving until tomorrow at the earliest,” she explained. “I need to chase down some leads with a particular organisation that the Brotherhood can’t have official contact with, hence my using leave time.”

            “Those synth-loving kooks. Jesus,” Cait said disgustedly. “You trust ‘em?”

            “Have no choice. They might be able to help me find my son.”

            The trio exchanged glances. “Look… I owe you for leaving early,” MacCready said awkwardly. “I’ll come and watch your back. No charge.”

            “I’ll go with you too,” Cait promised. “I want that cure.”

            Haylen nodded. “I’m on leave until the day after tomorrow. Can’t let a sister walk into a dangerous situation alone.”

            “Thank you,” Sparrow said, surprised that they’d be willing to walk into an unknown situation with her.

            “Think nothing of it.” MacCready leaned back and finally ordered some whiskey from Charlie. “Now prove to these two that you can down a shot of the Rail’s finest without coughing. They don’t believe me for some reason.”

…

Sparrow returned within the three days, coming to the Prydwen with Haylen – who was a day overdue – and the red-haired brawler Arthur remembered from Greenetech. “Haylen, can you get Cait to Cade ASAP?” the medic asked the Scribe. “Sooner we know the Vault 95 treatment works, the better.”

            “Sure,” Haylen promptly replied.

            “I’ll see you on the other side, Cait,” Sparrow told the brawler.

            “You got more hope than I do,” the woman said sceptically. “But guess if it works, I’ll be yelling ‘Ad Victoriam’ with the rest of you.”

            Maxson raised an eyebrow. Wasn’t this Cait a chem addict? But still, better her to test the experimental cure than someone from the Brotherhood.

            When the two women were gone, he turned to Sparrow. “With me to the command deck,” he said quietly.

            She went bright red. “To report on my findings, I assume,” she said. “I have some answers, none of them pleasant.”

            “ _I_ would prefer our next time together to be in a proper bed,” he rasped, cock twitching at the thought of being buried in her again. “So, yes, a report for myself and the Proctors.”

            Sparrow nodded, blush dying down a little, and followed him. Arthur hid a wry smile. It couldn’t be said the past three days hadn’t been… interesting.

            All traces of amusement were gone by the time she finished her report. “I had to let the Railroad have the Courser chip,” she said sourly. “Even with Cait, Haylen and MacCready, there wasn’t any way I was going to walk out of there with it.”

            “At least we know where to find them and reclaim it,” Kells observed with a sigh. “We have a signal to track more Coursers at least.”

            “And we know about why the Institute can’t be tracked,” Ingram said with determined cheer. “Elder, I think we can kill two mole rats with one stone.”

            “Oh?” Arthur turned to face the Proctor.

            “We need to secure a particular site in the Glowing Sea anyway. We might as well send Recon Squad Gladius in there to do that and make contact with this Virgil.”

            Ingram, as always, had the good ideas out of the Proctors. “Done. But I think we better promote them first, hmm?”

            Quinlan’s lips pursed. “Elder Maxson, the western Elders may be concerned that your chosen consort is a Vault Dweller and chosen Sentinel is a Wastelander. Perhaps it would be best to, ah, stagger the promotions a bit?”

            “Oh _come_ on, Quinlan,” Teagan said disgustedly. “Danse has proven his loyalty since the Lyons’ time. More so that Casdin, I might add.”

            “Brandis as Star Paladin and Danse’s second in command might ease their concerns a little,” Kells noted. “Besides, it’s going to be a while before we have the time or resources to stage an appropriate wedding for an Elder, so there’ll be a long betrothal.”

            Sparrow shifted, remaining silent, and Arthur glanced at her. _Easy, sweetheart. It’s alright._

“If we can confirm a pregnancy, we can confirm the betrothal,” Cade said bluntly. “Sparrow’s not the candidate that you or I want, Quinlan, but she’s what Arthur wants. We’ve asked a lot of our Elder since the Lyons died and it’s time we let him choose something for himself.”

            The Vault Dweller looked down, blushing darkly. “I care for Arthur,” she said softly but fiercely. “And even if he was the Initiate in charge of scrubbing the sewage pipes of the Prydwen, I still would.”

            Quinlan sighed. “I have no problem with you, Initiate Sparrow, despite what Cade thinks. In fact, you’re a better candidate than some options I could name. I’m just worried about how fragile the alliance between Brotherhood factions is, hence my wish for some… delay between your betrothal and Danse’s promotion.”

            “I think we should confirm the betrothal now,” Ingram announced. “Once Danse and his team complete their missions in the Glowing Sea, we can promote them. Hell, Danse could spend a few months as Star Paladin himself until we stomp the Institute into the ground, raze the ruins and salt the ashes. After that, the Western Elders will have to accept Elder Maxson as their equal instead of their figurehead.”

            “Hmm, that might be an acceptable compromise,” Quinlan agreed. “Teagan, Kells?”

            “Agreed. The alliance between the factions depends as much on the Maxson bloodline as anything else,” Kells said crisply, looking at Sparrow. “You’re not the candidate for Lady Maxson I would have chosen myself, Initiate. But you haven’t bent under the duties we’ve dumped on you and so far, you’ve demonstrated competence, discretion and intelligence. I hope that trends continues in the future for the Brotherhood’s sake.”

            “I’ll vote for the woman,” Teagan said cheerfully. “I’ve got a bet riding on four weeks for the confirmation of a little Maxson.”

            “You’ve put bets on every week since I came on board,” Sparrow told the Proctor heatedly as Maxson blinked. _They were betting on his heir’s conception?_

“I like to cover my bets,” Teagan countered with a grin.

            “You’re an ass,” Ingram said exasperatedly.

            “But a devastatingly handsome one.”

            Sparrow laughed. The sound was a trifle hysterical but it was real laughter. “What am I letting myself in for?” she asked of the air.

            Arthur embraced her, feeling a sense of triumph. Everything was falling into place. When they could infiltrate the Institute, they could destroy it and the Commonwealth would be safe. He could establish a new chapter here – he imagined Quinlan as a loyal Elder to back him here in the East – and return to the Capital Wasteland to bring in the improvements they’d engineered from this place’s wildlife. With Quinlan backing him and proof of a victory over the Institute, he could take his rightful place as High Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

            For him and Sparrow, the war might even end. Arthur didn’t know what he’d do with peace but he’d like to find out.

            _Soon,_ he promised Sparrow as he hugged her, promised her and the heirs she would give him. _It will be over soon._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for discussions of killing a child, child soldiers, dehumanisation and fantastic racism. Interestingly enough, some of my portrayal of Arthur in his gentler moments is inspired by the main character in Asura’s Wrath: all he knows is war and so all he can do for anyone he loves is pretty much kill anything that is a threat to them. I also head-canon the Brotherhood seeing the Eternal Steel like a divine force similar to God and fate all rolled up in one. Moar smut.

 

Cait survived the procedure that purged the addiction from her, though it was a hard go for her and she’d be weeks in recovery. The Irishwoman had to undergo intensive physical therapy to relearn the use of muscles scarred by years of vicious brawls, injuries masked by the cocktail of chems she’d consumed to dampen the emotional agony of her life. That someone could be treated so by her _parents_ -

            Six weeks of intensive therapy and twice-weekly sessions after that. Sparrow walked her through every one, through the pain and the grief, the screaming and the crying. Cait had somehow become a friend and the Vault Dweller had so few of those that she couldn’t abandon one.

            It took Recon Squad Gladius two weeks to locate the facility they wanted and another one to find Virgil, who turned out to be a still-intelligent super mutant. In return for a cure he’d worked on in the Institute, he agreed to cough up everything he knew, and that everything was… substantial.

            The Shaun she was searching for was a child-synth created by the Director of the Institute to test extreme emotional stimuli. Aside from the horrors of FEV research, that had been the final straw for Virgil, who had a little bit of human decency despite growing up within the sterile walls of the Institute. “He won’t grow up,” Virgil said bluntly. “It’s one thing to create an adult Gen-3 synth, but a child will be the eternal victim.”

            “Why the focus on me?” Sparrow demanded.

            The man’s beady eyes regarded her grimly. “The Director’s playing games I can’t even imagine. Madison Li’s been making noises about a hostile takeover because he’s frittering too many resources on personal, wasteful projects.”

            Arthur’s eyes widened and he leaned forward. “Madison Li? Dark-haired woman, somehow manages to be cynical and idealistic all at once?”

            “You know her.” It wasn’t a question.

            “We do.” The Elder of the Brotherhood stood up again and crossed his beefy arms. “You’ve bought your cure, Virgil. When we send an agent into the Institute, we’ll find the serum and get it out.”

            “What happens to me then?” the scientist asked warily.

            “You left the Institute because you realised the monstrosity of its actions. If this molecular relay of yours works in addition to the cure, you’ll be assigned to the Scribes under armed watch for the rest of your natural life.” More mercy than she expected from Arthur but tempered with the justice that Virgil’s actions had brought upon himself. He would be a prisoner, albeit a well-treated one, until he died.

            “I expected a bullet in the head.” Virgil studied Arthur thoughtfully. “Madison once mentioned a kid named Arthur. Judging by the age that must be you.”

            “It is.”

            “She said and I quote, ‘I hope the Lost Hills lot didn’t fuck him up too much after Sarah was killed’.” Virgil shrugged. “I don’t know what that means, but…”

            Sparrow took one look at Arthur’s face and turned to Virgil. “Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll speak to you more about Madison Li later.”

            The intercom to the interrogation room which had been set up as a bedroom for Virgil at Boston Airport was switched off and she tucked her arm through Arthur’s to walk him away before the eruption that threatened happened.

            “Sarah Lyons was killed by super mutants,” he finally rasped.

            “All it takes in a squad is one subverted soldier and one moment where not acting can be as decisive as shooting someone in the back,” Sparrow told him. “Sarah Lyons charged into battle, trusting that her soldiers had her back.”

            “…I can’t believe that someone would let an Elder die for… what? Personal gain? The Brotherhood’s not like that!” There was a child’s anguished plea in that last statement, an echo of the boy he’d been for far too briefly.

            “Ideological differences,” Sparrow said gently, embracing him. Virgil had cut through a protective scar on Arthur’s psyche. “The Lyons were considered heretics by the other Elders, remember?”

            “Owyn was too kind but Sarah… I try to be like her.”  Arthur’s voice was ragged with unshed tears. “She had the right mixture of pragmatism and compassion.”

            “She sounds like someone I would have liked.” Sparrow ran her hand through the longer locks of Arthur’s hair. It was surprisingly soft, just like his beard.

            “She would have liked you, I think.” Arthur buried his face in her shoulder and allowed himself one grieving shudder. Then he turned his head a little, kissed the side of her neck and became the commanding Elder once more.

            “At least we know the Institute is aiming squarely for you now. And that means…”

            “I need to be the agent,” Sparrow finished bravely. “I suspect this is going to require more brains than brawn anyway.”

            “It is.” Arthur’s eyes glittered. “I need you to persuade Madison Li back to our side. She was instrumental in Project Purity and a weapons project that brought down the Enclave, the remnants of America’s old corrupt government. She left shortly after Sarah died and if… what she believes is true…”

            Sparrow nodded, hearing what was unsaid. If Sarah Lyons had been allowed to die in battle, presumably to control Arthur, then whoever ordered it to happen made an unrelenting enemy. Arthur would tear the world apart to avenge those he loved.

            “I’ll do so. See if I can drop some subtle hints – from the sounds of it, most of the Institute scientists are more isolated than evil personified – for the others.” She took a ragged breath and asked, “What about the child-synth?”

            “The kindest thing you can do is put it out of its misery,” Arthur said gently, hand lifting to wipe away the tear that trickled hot down her cheek. His thumb was rough and soft against her skin. “I suspect these bastards wanted to see to what extremes a mother looking for her son would go to.”

            “I can’t kill a child,” Sparrow said, shaking her head.

            “Then leave it to me. I can make it quick.”

            It was moments like this that Sparrow saw the child soldier in Arthur. At an age where she was deciding that she wanted to be a lawyer so she could help her daddy beat the bad guys, Arthur was learning how to kill a man by stabbing him in the kidneys. For all he might be disgusted viscerally about the idea of a child being subjected to inhuman tests, the child was still an enemy combatant and would need to die.

            She said nothing, her silence answer enough.

            His arms slid to her waist, drawing her closer to press against the hard body she knew so well now. “All the gentleness I have in me is for you and our future children,” he rasped almost apologetically. “I can show none to our enemies or their works for your sakes.”

            “I know,” Sparrow sighed. “It’s just…”

            “You have a big heart,” Arthur said tenderly. “I can’t be angry for how you feel. You’re a healer. You want to help people. I realised that with Cait. But… I’m a soldier. A killer. I can’t heal people and sometimes I can’t even protect them like Danse can, but I can kill the threats to them. I don’t know why the Eternal Steel brought you to me but…”

            He rested his forehead against hers. “Come back to me, please. You’re the closest thing to peace I’ve ever known.”

            Sparrow blinked back the tears and nodded. “I will.”

…

The blue-white light cleared and Sparrow was gone.

            “She’ll come back,” Danse assured him from behind.

            “I know,” Arthur agreed, though he wasn’t sure if that was true. But no one else could go and return alive, hopefully with Madison Li.

            “If not, we tear Cambridge apart looking for them,” Cait vowed fiercely. The brawler was healing rapidly though she’d sustained permanent damage from her chem addiction and years as a pit fighter. She’d lost her taste for violence and mayhem but was now at a loss what to do with her life beyond joining the Brotherhood as she’d promised. “I can still fire a gun.”

            “I know.” Arthur sighed and turned towards the two people he and Sparrow could trust absolutely. “I need to ask a favour of you both that must remain secret.”

            “It’s that slimy Initiate Clarke, isn’t it?” Cait immediately said. “He’s up to something. I know it. His eyes are shifty.”

            “That _wasn’t_ it but if you have any suspicions about the Initiate, pass them onto Lancer-Captain Kells. Internal security _is_ his domain, after all.” Arthur clasped his hands behind his back to conceal his trembling. “I’ve asked Sparrow to bring back Madison Li for more than just her scientific knowledge.”

            Danse’s eyes narrowed. “I remember her leaving the Brotherhood. She accused the Elders of murdering Sarah Lyons even though it was _clearly_ a super mutant.”

            “You know as much as I do that sometimes deliberate _inaction_ can do as much damage in battle as shooting someone can,” Arthur pointed out.

            “…True,” the Paladin conceded. “What are we doing, Elder?”

            “I’m not asking this as Elder. I’m asking this as Arthur.” Maxson looked to Cait. “Sparrow trusted you at her back and so I’m trusting you with mine.”

            “I want you to ask questions of the officers, Danse. Cait, you will be dealing with the grunts. If anyone asks, tell them…” He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

            “Tell them Sparrow’s asked for a complete history of the Brotherhood from your birth to now based on people’s personal impressions as a wedding present,” Cait suggested. “Be the sort of thing she’d ask for.”

            “Cait, you are a genius.” Danse flashed a grin at the woman, who sighed dramatically.

            “Shame you like men, Danse,” the Boston Irishwoman observed in mock sorrow.

            The Paladin blinked. “You picked that up?”

            “Sparrow and Haylen did because I wanted to know the chances of getting a kiss from you.”

            Arthur said nothing. There had been many times he wished he could reciprocate Danse’s affections for him. To have that bulwark at his side all the time… But nothing had awoken, not like that. Not until a pre-War medic had tended his wounds with gentle hands.

            “If I ever have to fulfil the order’s expectation that every Paladin chooses a partner for procreation, I’ll choose you,” Danse promised, not looking in Arthur’s direction. “That’s the best I can offer other than friendship.”

            “Thanks, but no. Kids don’t deserve my shitty genes.” Cait smiled but there was pain in it before changing the subject. “So, if I’m understanding correctly, you think someone let this Sarah die in battle?”

            “Someone has brought up that possibility, yes,” Arthur admitted.

            “I’ll start with Clarke. Even if _he’s_ not involved, someone that shifty has to know things.” Cait saluted and took off. Her following military discipline was… getting there.

            “Arthur, is it wise to stir the pot in the middle of a war?” Danse asked quietly. “You’re basing this on hearsay.”

            “Sarah Lyons was a Sentinel, just like you,” Arthur responded. “No ordinary super mutant shouldn’t have gotten through the squad to her.”

            “The Shepherd was hardly an ordinary super mutant but… you’re not far wrong.” Danse now looked troubled. “If we find anything?”

            “Report it to me.” _If there is a threat to me and mine in the Brotherhood, I will show them what a soul forged from Eternal Steel_ truly _means._

…

As soon as the tall, slightly stooped old man in the white lab coat stepped through the door and shut down that poor child-synth, Sparrow knew who he was. The hairstyle was different and the heavy beard concealed that strong jawline, but the green-hazel eyes, spare bone structure and arching brows like her own told the tale. “Shaun,” she said softly.

            His eyes widened momentarily in surprise before satisfaction flooded his face. “Yes… Mother. I went over the files extensively once I was of an age and rank to have access of them. My intelligence obviously came from your side.”

            _So did your ruthlessness,_ Sparrow thought as she saw the glint in his eyes, the harsh line of his wrinkles. This man was Elisabeth and Frances Killian’s grandson, perhaps in all the worst ways.

            “Your father wasn’t an idiot,” she countered quietly.

            “No, but he contributed to my height and dashing good looks more than my brain, apparently.” A flash of dry humour warmed the British-accented voice. Good Lord above, Frances Killian – the penultimate Boston Irish mobster – would have pitched a fit if he knew his grandson sounded like a Brit. “Welcome to the Institute.”

            He led her out to a balcony which showed the lush yet peculiarly sterile world that he called home. “You’re labouring under a number of misunderstandings concerning the Institute,” he continued gravely. “What we do here is for the good of humanity.”

            “The settlers murdered by Coursers and replaced with synths might argue the point,” Sparrow observed sharply.

            “The Commonwealth is a corpse too stupid to know it’s dead,” Shaun said with a sigh.

            “Then why bring me down here? Shouldn’t I die with the rest of them?” Lord, but his lack of empathy and compassion was a stark thing, one that burned her heart.

            “Don’t be ridiculous.” That was Nate’s exasperated tone coming out. “I brought you here because you’re my mother and your genetics are pure. I’ve often wished that you were brought here with me and… as age comes and regrets build, I wonder what might have been.”

            Sparrow managed to keep her voice even. “Why did they take you?”

            Shaun’s smile was proud. “My DNA – and a few other sources – created the Gen-3 synths. The Institute calls me ‘Father’ for my part in them.”

            “They tore you from your father’s arms as Kellogg shot him in the head while I watched helplessly,” Sparrow said tightly. “Does that mean nothing to you?”

            “I’ve had sixty years to deal with my grief,” Shaun pointed out. “Father’s death was… an unfortunate bit of collateral damage. I kept Kellogg on a short leash until it was time for you to kill him, which you did. You have your vengeance, let it go.”

            He turned from the vista below with a sigh. “Your profile _did_ state you were empathetic to the point of it being a flaw.”

            _Does_ yours _state you’re a heartless asshole?_ Sparrow thought bitterly.

            “As for why you’re here, it’s because I want to give you, my mother, a better life,” Shaun said. “You’ve done so much for the Institute. The least we can do is make your life easier.”

            He led her down a ramp. “Also, a woman of your talents can go far with our organisation. Until particular projects are implemented, we must unfortunately interact with the surface, which will be _your_ job. My predecessors were focused on ruthless expediency, hence the recruitment and enhancement of Kellogg. _I_ pity the surface-dwellers and would much prefer diplomacy.”

            “What does that mean?” Sparrow asked warily.

            “You come and go as you please. A personal Courser will be assigned to you – X6-88, he was my protector as a child – and unless it interferes directly with their departments, the Directors are your equals in authority.” Shaun looked over his shoulder at her. “I hope you won’t abuse the privilege.”

            “I won’t,” Sparrow said truthfully. Once she had the information Ingram needed and Madison Li willing to leave, she was leaving this place and this cold-eyed monster her womb had produced.

            “You’ll agree then?” Shaun sounded hopeful.

            “I need to meet everyone I’m working with first,” Sparrow hedged.

            “Certainly. I understand. Despite your overly compassionate nature, you aren’t an idiot after all.” Shaun smiled briefly and it was like Nate. Her heart should ache more but… it didn’t. Arthur’s rare smiles were what she treasured now. “Go and meet everyone. I need to rest anyway.”

            Sparrow took a deep breath and nodded. Time to do her job as a Scribe.

…

Sparrow returned not by a flash of light but by vertibird, Madison Li and nearly a hundred holotapes with her, and the serum for Virgil’s cure. “My report’s on a holotape,” she announced hoarsely. “I have no wish to repeat the finer details and the Brotherhood needs the records anyway.”

            Arthur nodded and looked to Madison Li. “Welcome back, Doctor.”

            “Sparrow tells me you’re willing to share the agricultural science the Brotherhood’s developed with civilians,” the stately woman observed quietly. “That’s more than Casdin or McNamara would ever do.”

            “I take Sarah as my example for being an Elder,” Arthur told her sincerely. “If the settlements are willing to give their allegiance, they will be protected and uplifted. Both sides benefit.”

            “A little more feudal than I’d like but beggars can’t be choosers,” Madison said with a sigh. “You didn’t just bring me back here because of my work on Project Purity.”

            “No. We’ll have to deploy Liberty Prime to gain access to the Institute.”

            Madison’s dark eyes glittered dangerously. “There’s civilians there, Arthur, including a lot of non-combatant Gen-3 synths who are sapient despite what Finlay and his cronies believe.”

            Maxson went to open his mouth but the doctor’s sharp look silenced him as it had when he was a child at the Citadel. “I know Brotherhood doctrine,” she continued. “But the Gen-3s are functionally human except for being built on a framework of plastic and steel.”

            His lips tightened. “I’ll reserve judgment if they surrender. But if they get in the way of the war, Madison, or are active enemies…”

            “I understand.” There was a bit of sadness in her eyes.

            “You’ll need to be debriefed on everything that’s happened since Sarah’s death,” Arthur continued softly. “I hate to ask this of you, but I’m going to need _everything_ you know about Sarah.”

            Sparrow’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve found something.”

            “Possibly.” Arthur shrugged. “I’m not moving until I have more than coincidence.”

            “Whatever you need, it’s yours,” Madison promised softly. “It wasn’t just grief for my lover that was making me say those things, Arthur. It was how everything was too pat, too coincidental.”

            “You and Sarah…?” Arthur blinked, several subtle interactions between the two women falling into place.

            “Loved each other. Oh, we’d have done our duty by the Brotherhood, but I would have been her Consort and fuck what the Lost Hills lot thought,” Madison replied bluntly. “The Institute recruited me shortly after, going on about a better world… That would have been just for them.”

            She looked at Sparrow. “I’m sorry you discovered your son’s an asshole, Finlay.”

            A flash of pain in the Vault Dweller’s eyes said it all.

            Arthur felt his lips peeling back into a snarl but he stopped himself. “Unless Ingram specifically needs your expertise on Liberty Prime, I’ll try to keep you on civilian projects,” he promised Madison.

            “Thanks.” Madison’s smile was a slightly feral thing. “I’ve also brought everything I could on the Institute’s agricultural and medical innovations.”

            “Quinlan will be thrilled,” Arthur observed with a smirk. “Go report to Kells and Ingram for debriefing, then get some food, a shower and sleep. The next few weeks will be busy.”

            Madison saluted. “Ad Victoriam. And give Finlay a promotion – that woman’s cold as ice on a mission. She was there for two days and didn’t even give away the fact she was gathering information or wanted to disassemble the Director into his component parts with her bare hands.”

            The scientist left for the command deck, leaving Arthur and Sparrow relatively alone on the flight deck. “I have to do a personal debrief for you with Cade,” he told her. “It’s enough about your mental wellbeing as any information you might possess.”

            Sparrow nodded. “Let’s get it over with.”

            Two hours later, she was weeping in his arms again as Arthur exchanged a grim look with Cade. “I’ve put her on medical leave for a week,” the Knight-Captain said. “After hearing those holotapes, no one will argue with me.”

            The Elder nodded and kissed the top of Sparrow’s head as her crying ceased. “I’m sorry,” she hiccupped.

            “For what? I think I’d probably be crying too after finding out that my son’s… completely amoral.” Arthur found it in him to be relatively polite when describing Shaun. He was still Sparrow’s son.

            “Ruthless little prick who’s the worst of the Killian, Ahern and Finlay blood,” Sparrow corrected with a hint of acid. “Mom and Dad would be proud of him.”

            He sighed and kissed her forehead. “Was there anything else, Cade?”

            “Not really.” But there was something in the Knight-Captain’s voice that made Arthur pause.

            “What is it?”

            “Kells is showing signs of stress. You might want to check it out.”

            Arthur nodded, not particularly interested at the moment. “I will. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

            “Go welcome your betrothed home.” Cade’s voice was now amused.

            He looked down at her. “Join me?” he asked hopefully.

            Sparrow nodded and Arthur’s embrace tightened. It had been too long without her and he needed to hold her, to be in her, to believe she was real.

            Sparrow was _his_ and for her, he would burn the Institute from the face of the earth.

…

His beard scratched against her neck as he planted wet, open-mouthed kisses that left their own mark on her skin. For her safety, they hadn’t made love for a few days before the teleporter was ready, and there was a feral, possessive edge to Arthur’s kisses as he left at least one hickey on her neck for all the world to see. Large hands pulled off the Vault suit she would wear for the last time, fabric tearing with a snarl similar to the one she’d seen when Madison revealed who her son had become, before the kisses covered her chest and a mouth closed over a nipple.

            She needed this. The last of her life was gone, ashes and ruin. She mourned for the baby Shaun had been but the man he was needed to die. Him and his organisation.

            Sparrow’s hair had fallen out of her bun and it fell past her face like a veil to brush the top of Arthur’s head as he knelt before her. He released the nipple, the flesh pebbled and swollen from his ministrations, and looked up at her through his eyelashes. A flash of blue, hot as a gas-fed flame, and she bit back a moan at the sheer _want_ that ran through her veins.

            “Never leave me again unless it’s for your own safety,” he rasped commandingly. “When you’re gone, I believe you’re just some dream, that I’ll wake up and be alone in this world of blood and ruin.”

            “Arthur…”

            His hands tightened on her hips. “Promise me!”

            “I promise,” she vowed fervently.

            He rested his forehead against her stretch-marked belly. “Thank you.”

            She twined her hands in his ash-brown hair. “Arthur?”

            “Yes?”

            “Fuck the past out of me and make me look to the future.”

            The gas fire in his eyes became a conflagration and he rose to his feet. Slowly, too slowly, he pulled off his uniform, revealing that magnificent warrior’s frame, as she backed towards the bed. Two of them, technically, pushed together to make one. Then she sat on its end, legs wide apart, and slowly toyed with a swollen, sensitive nipple as the other hand spread her nether lips open to show her wet pink core.

            Their bedroom dynamic was strange. Arthur preferred to tend to her rather than be tended to and – until a child was conceived – insisted on spilling inside of her. Nate had been all about Sparrow’s pleasure magnifying his own virility – it showed he was a man whenever she screamed his name.

            Arthur lavished attention on her birth-wrinkled belly and Sparrow suspected that he was going to literally wallow in it once she was pregnant. She never knew how Nate would have reacted because he returned to the front once Shaun was conceived.

            Both men were possessive and protective. But Arthur trusted her to go do what needed to be done and come back to him whereas Nate had protected her because she was fragile.

            Arthur was her future and Nate her past. As Maxson tore off his boxers to reveal a hard cock oozing pre-cum, Sparrow let go of what had been with a sad inward smile and a prayer for her husband’s soul.

            She scooted back onto the bed until her head hit the pillows. Arthur looked at her reverently, blue eyes tender with something that was familiar from Nate’s green-hazel gaze… and Sparrow was surprised to find that she returned it. Then he was on the bed with her, on top of her, as his cock sheathed itself to the balls and her legs wrapped around his hips, ankles locked at the back.

            “I love you,” she breathed into the side of his neck.

            “And I you,” he whispered in reply as he began to thrust.

            It was slow and sweet this time around, the moments flowing like honey from the comb, and when Arthur came, his fingers on her clit, she let herself go for the first time in a long while.

            For the first time since Nate had died, she was home.

…

Sparrow fell asleep shortly after their lovemaking. Not that Arthur could blame her. She’d had a rough week and his demands on her were the last thing he should have asked of her. But it was worth it, to hear her say “I love you.”

            He showered and put on a new pair of boxers. If he needed to leave his room, he’d pull on some jeans or something. He wasn’t leaving Sparrow’s side until the morning.

            Still, his terminal was chock-full of messages from various officers. The first one caught his eye: PRIORITY STAR PALADIN DANSE, from Kells.

            Arthur opened it and read the brief message. And then his heart constricted with pain. _No, not him-_

He tapped out a quick message to Cade to have Senior Scribe Neriah run a DNA test thrice… on every senior staffer and Paladin on the Prydwen. And to keep it Alpha-level, which was essentially him, Cade, Neriah and Sparrow if she got involved.

            If it was true… _Oh Eternal Steel if it was true…_

His best friend was a synth.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for mentions of death, violence, dehumanisation, child neglect, child soldiers, self-loathing, suicidal thoughts and fantastic racism. Jesus, this is gonna be a hard chapter to write. I hate Blind Betrayal.

 

Sparrow awoke to Arthur bawling his eyes out – full-fledged, honest to God sobbing that was choked with pain and despair – and read the messages from Kells, Cade and Neriah as she comforted him. Danse, Arthur’s best friend, was a synth, designation M7-97. A runaway synth, judging by the list. That was good to know – if he were an infiltrator, Arthur would be shattered beyond repair.

            When the tears stopped, she wiped them from his cheeks and looked down at him. “He’s a runaway synth and the reason the Institute created the Coursers was because they can’t remotely control or shut down Gen-3s. I suspect that the Railroad smuggled him out, gave him false memories and a new identity, and somehow got him to Rivet City where he chose to join the Brotherhood of his own accord.”

            Those bright blue eyes, vivid against the bloodshot whites and reddened skin of excessive weeping, fixed on her face desperately. “I… want to believe that, Sparrow. I really do.”

            Sparrow pointed to the file on his terminal. “There’s your proof right there! I remember a discussion between Drs Binet and Ayo about the M7s. Bodyguard model, nearly as fast and strong as a Courser unless their charge is in danger – then they crank up the adrenaline, or whatever synths have, and become _better_ than a Courser. They also have the highest rate of factory reset in the Institute because they form attachments hard and fast, and were apparently becoming devoted to ‘the wrong people’.”

            “Factory reset?” Arthur’s voice was raw.

            “Synths are made – for the most part – with the mental and physical attributes of an adult human,” Sparrow said, taking a deep breath and bringing to mind what Shaun had proudly boasted of. “It takes about six weeks to reach relatively emotional maturity… And if the Institute scientists don’t like how said personality has developed, they wipe the synth’s mind, therefore shutting them down, and start again.”

            The true horror of what she’d done to Z2-47 hit her and she shuddered. She’d essentially wiped a person’s mind unknowingly.

            Arthur looked as sick as she felt. “Abomination,” he rasped.

            “Yeah. But I’m not going to condemn the synths who already exist, love. And you promised Madison you’d reserve judgment on those who surrendered.”

            Arthur was too quiet for a moment before nodding. “I will give the synth a chance to surrender. I want to believe it’s always been him but if it replaced my best friend, my _brother_ …”

            “I’ll hand you the gun myself,” Sparrow promised with a heavy heart. “How did Kells find out?”

            “When you told us that Shaun was the main source of DNA for the synths, we checked the hacked synth records against yours,” Arthur said with a sigh. “It came back positive.”

            “So Danse is, in a strange way, my grandson?”

            “I wouldn’t look at it that way.” Arthur’s face was even older than it had been yesterday. “Sparrow, I have to hand this decision to the Proctors. I… want to believe that it’s Danse but the doctrine is clear.”

            “I know. God, I know.” She leaned down, the back of Arthur’s chair digging into her stomach, and kissed him comfortingly. Tears from her own eyes splattered on his chest.

            “You need to rest,” Arthur decreed when the kiss ended.

            “No, I need to be at your side,” Sparrow countered. “Arthur, you’re… more vulnerable than you usually are. This has cracked open a massive hole in your armour and…”

            “Even when you are fragile and grieving, you think of others first.” Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath. “Go have a shower, sweetheart. Today is going to be hard on all of us.”

            She nodded and kissed him again before turning away. Today she needed to be strong for his sake.

…

Arthur’s first instinct was to keep Sparrow safe and away from this. She was fragile from the excursion into the Institute and if Danse put up a fight, the synth would know the easiest way to devastate _him_ would be to kill his betrothed. But her first thought was of him, offering reasons why Danse could be spared, could be trusted, and then agreeing to stand by his side no matter what.

            Winning that “I love you” from Sparrow felt like a greater victory than one he’d ever won on the battlefield.

            He typed a few commands in his terminal before rising to his feet. It was time to be the Elder of the Eastern Brotherhood of Steel, to watch his Proctors tear a machine with the face of a good friend apart. If Danse… was Danse, always had been, it would be brutal to watch that loyalty be ripped to shreds, watch the devotion in those dirt-brown eyes die.

            Arthur almost hoped that Danse panicked and ran. A clean kill, executing a traitor, would be much easier than a trial. It would let the Brotherhood doctrine stand strong and untarnished. It would placate the Lost Hills Elders.

            But the coincidence and a comment by Cade made him pause. _“Kells is showing signs of stress.”_

Kells, the only survivor of the super mutant attack that killed Sarah Lyons. At the time, Arthur had believed him brave beyond belief, forged from the same steel that made Danse. But now, he had to wonder… other things. Was the survival too convenient?

            _I’m sorry, Danse. I have to ask particular questions and the trial will be the best place to ask them._

If Danse surrendered quietly, submitted to his likely execution without protest, Arthur would see him buried with all due honours because it would show loyalty trumped programming.

            _“Bodyguard model, nearly as fast and strong as a Courser unless their charge is in danger – then they crank up the adrenaline, or whatever synths have, and become_ better _than a Courser. They also have the highest rate of factory reset in the Institute because they form attachments hard and fast, and were apparently becoming devoted to ‘the wrong people’.”_

All of Danse’s programmed instincts were geared towards protecting people, all of his amazing heroics revolving around saving another. Arthur’s main claims to fame were killing a deathclaw, killing a super mutant and reuniting a group of killers. The machine was probably a better person than he.

            The shower turned off and he heard Sparrow step out, her feet padding on the salvaged ceramic tiles. Arthur imagined the towel wiping away the water that beaded on her breasts and belly, the line of her rounded hips, the join between neck and shoulder where he always felt compelled to leave his mark as proof she existed. Her lips still swollen from his kisses last night…

            Sparrow always looked a little confused when he refused to let her pleasure him in bed. How could he tell her that she tended to him too much outside of the bedroom, that watching her fall apart under his hands and mouth was the only way he could thank her that didn’t involve killing her enemies? She was his peace in this world of blood and war.

            _“Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity.”_ One of the Lone Wanderer’s more… interesting… comments from the brief time Arthur knew him. Jamie had been a long, lean streak of misery in that iconic blue jumpsuit, one that was surprisingly devout and self-sacrificing as he stepped into the irradiated chamber to start Project Purity. Once his duty was done and he’d helped them win the war against the Enclave, the dark-eyed man left the Brotherhood with his beloved Moira and disappeared into legend.

            Arthur wondered what he’d think of Sparrow and the situation in the Brotherhood now. Jamie had always been a supporter of the Lyons, especially old Owyn, and…

            Sparrow had emerged from the bathroom and it was time to get dressed. Arthur pulled on his black uniform and battlecoat, feeling the leaded plates hang heavy across his body like the burdens of his bloodline and position. A glance in the mirror showed the dark circles under his eyes.

            As always, his betrothed wore the plain orange and beige uniform, her hair gathered into a bun at the nape of the neck. Arthur glanced down and noticed her left hand was bare of the wedding rings that had been hers and Nate’s. She’d buried the past in more ways than one.

            He gathered her into his arms and breathed in the scent of soap and clean sweat, drawing strength from what was his to protect. Was this how Danse felt when he stood before Arthur or a line of Squires, daring the enemy to attack them through his body?

            Today would be the hardest day of his life.

…

Danse looked smaller outside of his power armour but no less of a Brotherhood soldier. He’d surrendered peacefully when two Paladins went to arrest him, coming along quietly and reviewing the files on a holotape in Quinlan’s office, nodding quietly at the mounting evidence. His request for a pistol and a moment alone was reluctantly denied by the Proctor as Molly wound her way around the synth’s ankles. “I understand. A public example must be made,” was all he said in reply.

            Now Arthur stood before the windows that overlooked the ruins of Boston, hands clasped behind his back, face set in harsh lines to conceal the pain in his eyes. The Proctors, Lancer-Captain Kells, Senior Scribe Neriah, Madison Li and Knight-Captain Cade sat on the couches on either side of the command centre’s viewport except for Ingram, whose power-frame forced her to stand. Sparrow stood next to Arthur, trying to keep the tears from her eyes by main force of will. Danse deserved so much better than this.

            “I have called you here today because as Elder of the Eastern Brotherhood of Steel, I must recuse myself for being too close to Star Paladin Danse for the passing of clear judgment,” he announced hoarsely. “Today… calls for us to examine the Litany and the Codex, to consider the very nature of humanity itself. That you are a synth is undeniable, Danse, but because you surrendered peacefully and submitted to trial, you will be remembered in the records. We have determined that short of the Institute getting its hands on you, you cannot betray us to them. But the Proctors must find an interpretation of the doctrine to decide your ultimate fate.”

            “You said you’d reserve judgment on every synth who surrendered,” Madison Li snapped at the Elder. “Paladin Danse is sapient in every sense of the word. Just because he was made in a tube instead of a womb doesn’t make him any less of a human.”

            “The sapience of Gen-3 synths is without a doubt,” agreed Quinlan. “But the fact remains that they are abominations of technology and must be destroyed.”

            “I’d argue about the sapience,” Kells countered. “Shoot it in the head and send it to the Scribes for study – and to hell with remembering it in the records. It’s not a person.”

            “Don’t suppose we could consider… it… to be a more sophisticated Securitron?” Ingram asked hesitantly. “I mean, the Institute are sick bastards for this, but I remember the Paladin who hauled my legless ass out of a hot zone. I just can’t throw someone I owe my life to on the pyre, even for the doctrine.”

            “I could go with that,” Teagan agreed. “I mean, we’re all fond of the Mr Handies in the botany lab, right? I’ve always thought of Danse as a big guard dog. This just proves me right.”

            “I hate to be the asshole for saying this, but we should euthanise it painlessly and autopsy the corpse. Keep the name and rank it wore in the records for its service.” Cade sounded incredibly uncomfortable as he spoke.

            “Do I have permission to speak?” Danse’s voice cut through the conversation effortlessly.

            “Granted,” Arthur said unhappily.

            “If Quinlan had given me a pistol and five minutes alone, I would have solved the problem for you,” the synth said quietly. “The Litany is clear on the matter of artificial intelligence – it cannot be tolerated.”

            “Yet we use Mr Handies and are planning to unleash Liberty Prime,” Madison argued. “Besides, it would be better to describe you as a cyberorganic intelligence.”

            “I see a man who escaped slavery and constantly threatened wiping of his personality,” Sparrow said, speaking up for the first time. “You’ve all listened to my reports. You know what the Institute does to Gen-3 synths.”

            “ _Your_ son was responsible for them,” Kells retorted sharply, turning a hard gaze on her. “How do we know that now you’ve found your son, you aren’t working with him to undermine the Brotherhood?”

            Sparrow was in motion before she realised it, fist clenching just before it collected Kells on the jaw and sent him sprawling back onto the couch. Bless her father for teaching her how to punch the fool who impugned a Killian’s honour.

            “My son died the moment he was torn from his father’s arms,” she announced harshly as Kells shakily raised a hand to touch his bloody lip. “How _dare_ you imply that I would betray the man I _love_ for the monster that Shaun grew up to be?”

            The Lancer-Captain wiped his lip. “I apologise,” he said through gritted teeth. “Internal security is my concern and your admirable albeit misplaced compassion could lead to the undermining of the Codex if you don’t learn to save it for humanity.”

            “It’s always about the Codex with you, isn’t it, Kells?” Teagan observed with a hint of disgust.

            “Shaun would _love_ you,” Sparrow observed to the Lancer-Captain bitterly. “He told me I was ‘empathetic to the point of it being a flaw’.”

            She turned to the other senior staffers. “The Institute needs to die and the production of synths stopped. Everyone agrees on that, yes?”

            The others nodded, even Kells.

            “But what are we going to do about the synths already created, especially those who have had their memories replaced to blend into the general community? I see the Brotherhood had no problems working with Nick Valentine, who’s the synthetic reincarnation of an old family friend, and I know that everyone refers to the Mr Handies and Miss Nannies we have as ‘he’ and ‘she’ respectively. I treat Codsworth, my family’s old Mr Handy, as the member of the family that he is.”

            “It was determined that Valentine was a more sophisticated version of a Securitron and the various robots we make use of were pre-programmed with their personalities,” Ingram replied with a sigh. “But Gen-3s are functionally indistinguishable from humanity. They’re also tougher, stronger, faster and essentially immortal unless killed or shut down.”

            “And that’s why I need to be executed as an example, not spared as the exception.” Danse’s voice was gentle as he addressed Sparrow directly. “Lady Maxson, if I may allow myself the arrogance of being the first to address you as such, I _want_ to die as a member of the Brotherhood. Even if they allow Gen-3 synths to live, I cannot continue as a Paladin. Artificial intelligence, when we make use of it, is forbidden in the frontline in nothing but the direst of circumstances – like what the battle against the Institute will be.”

            Sparrow wiped the tears from her eyes. “You’re effectively my grandson, Danse, and Killians don’t just roll over and die. Assuming that you are essentially an artificial intelligence instead of a human being with a few extra parts, a Star Paladin _is_ deployed in the direst of circumstances. You’ve been doing what you were built to do within the doctrine’s constraints as I see it.”

            Quinlan’s eyebrow rose. “That’s… quite the interpretation of Brotherhood doctrine, Lady Maxson. A very interesting one and… hmm… in line with our discussions on the practical application of the Litany to new situations.”

            “I get where you’re coming from but you’ve said it yourself that you see robots as part of the family,” Cade pointed out. “Kells was an ass in how he described you, but your compassion is both strength and flaw.”

            “One thing we have to do is create a test that will pick up synths immediately,” Ingram said decisively. “We can’t have any more joining up unknowingly. I… can make an exception to Danse because his devotion is without doubt and I’m definitely not one to execute essentially civilian robots on a doctrinal whim.”

            “Robotic guard dog for Elder Maxson. You know, what he’s already been doing.” That was Teagan.

            _At least they’re calling Danse ‘him’,_ Sparrow thought with relief.

            “I’m in line with Ingram,” Neriah said quietly. “We definitely need to close the loopholes in the Litany and our recruitment process that let Danse through, but I’m not about to execute someone who wasn’t aware of what he was or throw him out of the Brotherhood.”

            “You know my opinion,” Madison said firmly. “Treat him just like anyone else.”

            Kells actually ground his teeth. “The doctrine cannot be easily interpreted to suit your personal worldview, Initiate Finlay. I have reluctantly come to the conclusion that you’re too sympathetic to synths for the Brotherhood’s good, therefore I am withdrawing my approval of your betrothal to Elder Maxson.”

…

“Or _what_ , Kells? You’ll leave her back unguarded at a critical moment to let an enemy do the deed you don’t have the guts to do yourself?”

            Arthur spoke for the first time since allowing Danse to address the Proctors. Sparrow’s interpretation of Brotherhood doctrine – hashed out over many discussions with Quinlan, who was the Prydwen’s official records keeper and therefore the expert on the Litany and Codex – was daring and certainly biased. But she’d held her own in the argument and swayed the majority of senior staffers to leave Danse alive and within the Brotherhood.

            He’d been mostly focused on Kells as the discussion progressed. The man was one of the more conservative members of the Brotherhood but until today, Arthur had thought Quinlan the most doctrinaire of the senior staffers. Ingram and Neriah had focused on the practical implications of Danse’s exposure, Teagan was pragmatic about the use of resources, and Cade interested in trying to maintain the status quo while recognising Danse’ service. Madison, of course, had been for acting as if nothing had happened and opening the door to wholesale recruitment of the synths.

            Kells’ mouth fell open for a moment before he collected himself. “I was injured too much to help Elder Lyons,” he protested.

            “And so you reveal yourself,” Arthur rasped tightly. “You knew _exactly_ what I was referring to.”

            “The Lyons were like the woman you’d have as Lady Maxson – too soft, too compassionate,” Kells finally said flatly. “I thought you’d be hard enough to keep her in line, Elder Maxson, but I see the Lyons left too much softness in you. A Maxson is like the Eternal Steel itself – hard, sharp, inflexible. A bulwark against the ignorance and folly of mankind. Put aside Initiate Finlay and keep her to the infirmary where she can’t do too much damage. I believe she’s loyal to the Brotherhood, maybe even in love with you, but she’s too weak to be Lady Maxson.”

            “You son of a bitch.” Madison’s voice was tight with rage. “You let Sarah die!”

            “I let the Wasteland remove an impurity in the Eternal Steel!” Kells barked in response. “It would have happened sooner or later – better it happen before the last Maxson was ruined irrevocably.”

            “You’re worried about a particular interpretation of the Litany when you shattered the Chain That Binds by letting your immediate superior die?” Ingram said disbelievingly. “That’s _treason_ , Kells. Treason of the worst kind.”

            “That moment when a fucking robot is a better example of the Brotherhood than a commanding officer,” Teagan observed. “Eternal fucking Steel preserve us all.”

            Arthur saw Sparrow trembling subtly out of the corner of his eye. He wanted to go to her, to enfold her in his arms, but he had to deal with the impurity before him. “You let a good woman die, Kells,” he rasped. “I look to Sarah Lyons as an example of what an Elder should be. Owyn was too kind but Sarah understood the balance between pragmatism and compassion.”

            “The question remains that if this was something he did off his own bat or was, ah, inspired by someone else to take action,” Quinlan said coolly. “For what it’s worth, Lady Maxson, I agree to your interpretation of doctrine with Ingram and Neriah’s suggestions and Cade’s plans for the body once the Star Paladin breaks down or whatever it is synths do.”

            “You’re recognising him as a Star Paladin still?” Teagan asked with a raised eyebrow.

            “Honorary rank, of course, just like Jamie from Vault 101 back in the Capital Wasteland.” Quinlan waved a hand dismissively. “Even when we win the war against the Institute, we won’t have the resources to hunt down every runaway synth. Too much of our forces are tied up here when we need to consolidate the alliance between the Brotherhood factions.”

            Just like that, Danse was spared and allowed to remain in the Brotherhood.

            “The Lost Hills Elders will lose it,” Madison predicted grimly. “But fuck ‘em, I say.”

            Arthur turned to a disbelieving Danse and the two Paladins guarding him. “Is this what you want? If you’d like, I can give you the pistol and five minutes alone.”

            Danse swallowed thickly. “That would be the wiser decision, Elder Maxson. But… I know the evidence points to me being a machine but I feel human. I want to live and die in service to the Brotherhood.”

            They’d forgotten Kells momentarily. Kells, a trained soldier who hadn’t been relieved of his weapon. Kells, the man who was dead anyway by the time Arthur was through with him.

            The man who drew his gun and fired it three times before Danse ripped his hands out of his cuffs and tackled him with superhuman speed.

            Arthur looked up at Sparrow’s white stricken face before he looked down at the three holes in his torso before collapsing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for mentions of death, violence, child soldiers, psychological manipulation, discussion of torture and fantastic racism. Time for some other viewpoints.

 

“Give me five minutes alone with the fucker and a pair of pliers,” Cait offered flatly. The Boston Irishwoman was on the balls of her feet, ready to commit violence. “Once I-“

            “While I certainly understand and sympathise with your wishes, Initiate Cait, we can’t just… question him harshly,” Proctor Quinlan said reluctantly, looking over the battered form of Kells handcuffed to a steel chair in the interrogation room which had recently held Virgil. “Even a traitor who murdered one Elder and tried to kill another.”

            “Maxson will make it then?” That was Senior Scribe Haylen.

            “Of course. It takes more than weak steel to finish off a Maxson.” Quinlan allowed himself a relieved sigh. Maintaining a strong façade in front of the junior staffers could be difficult and only Molly’s presence gave him the energy to do so. He vaguely recalled that the cat had always hissed at Kells whenever the man entered his office; he should have taken it as a sign.

            “That’s a relief,” Cait observed, brushing her wild red hair from her eyes. “Though he ain’t ‘weak steel’, he’s fucking ‘old TV dinner tray’ – all polished and shiny and weak as fuck.”

            “Aluminium serves a purpose,” Haylen muttered absently. Quinlan smirked a little; Scribes never passed up a chance to educate a fellow member of the Brotherhood.

            “And so will he by the time we’re done with him,” Cait declared, cracking her scarred knuckles. “No one fucks with my friend’s man around me and walks away intact.”

            The brawler’s acquaintance with military discipline was tenuous at best but Quinlan couldn’t fault her loyalty to Lady Maxson and by extension the Elder. Sparrow’s compassion, though occasionally misguided, had brought allies to the Brotherhood… and some much needed change.

            Her response to the Danse predicament was daring indeed. Quinlan had been prepared to reluctantly vote for the synth to be executed – he would have preferred to fulfil the man’s request on being arrested but Arthur had been adamant he be put on trial – and was floored by the outcome. Looking back at it, he detected the Elder’s tactical genius guiding the Consort’s charismatic tongue and natural compassion to achieve the outcome he didn’t dare pursue openly. And the way he’d used the trial to reveal Kells’ treason against Sarah Lyons…

            Truly magnificent. Arthur Maxson was a paragon of humanity, a general to match the legends of ancient time. And Sparrow was extraordinary in her own way – a will to equal her betrothed’s but the willingness to match her strengths to his. The Eternal Steel had surely preserved the Woman Out of Time to be the partner of the greatest Maxson to live.

            Quinlan opened the door as Kells looked up. “Just kill me already,” the former Lancer-Captain spat.

            “Oh no.” Quinlan allowed himself a grim smile. “I’m just here for these. You’re not worthy of them.”

            He tore Kells’ holotags off. “These will be melted down and the metal discarded, your name removed from the records. The alloy that is the Brotherhood has no need of weak steel.”

            The Proctor turned away and took one step towards the door before Kells begged him to stop. He smiled in satisfaction before turning back with a neutral expression.

            “Elder Hardin spread rumours that the Lyons were weak steel and that for the sake of Arthur, whose soul was forged from the Eternal Steel itself, they had to be eliminated.” Kells’ expression was bleak in the harsh white light of the interrogation room. “Sarah was coddling the boy even after he saved his patrol and took out that deathclaw.”

            “Both thanks to the vigilance of Danse,” Quinlan observed blandly, enjoying the traitor’s flinch at the mention of the synth’s name. “That a _machine_ should show more of the Steel than you, Kells.”

            “That’s not Maxson. Not the real Maxson,” snarled Kells, finding energy from some unknown source. “It’s a synth-“

            “Don’t be more of a fool than you are,” Quinlan interrupted mildly. “When the order was given to test all senior staffers against the synth DNA lists, we also tested Arthur Maxson’s to be certain. Lady Maxson’s too.”

            “How do I know _you’re_ not a synth?” Kells looked at Cait and Haylen. “Or those two?”

            The brawler cracked her knuckles with a dark look. “Call me a synth again and I’ll give you an eye to match the lip Sparrow gave you.”

            Quinlan sighed. “I see the stress of being a traitor got to you, Kells. Ladies, shall we?”

            They left the office, locking the door behind them, and Quinlan assigned old Brandis to watch over Kells in case someone got the bright idea of killing him to either remove evidence or avenge Arthur.

            Cait pulled the recorder from her pocket, clicked stop, and showed it to the Proctor. “Got his confession on holotape.”

            “Well done, though I’d already assigned Haylen to it.” Quinlan smiled approvingly to the brawler. “Keep using your initiative though, Initiate, and you’ll be rising through the ranks before you know it.”

            Cait snorted sceptically. Her esteem was getting up there, thanks to Lady Maxson’s positive reinforcement, but she still doubted herself at times. “Mess hall, maybe. Doubt I’ll be seeing the field any time soon.”

            “My dear Initiate, _every_ member of the Brotherhood is part of the alloy that makes us a bulwark against the monstrosities of such as the Institute,” Quinlan told her gently. “Even if you were a member of the mess hall crew for the rest of your life, your steel would strengthen the rest of us, your hands preparing the food that fuels the Paladins to do what they must. Though I doubt you’ll be assigned to _too_ many menial tasks. Elder and Lady Maxson trust you implicitly.”

            “Keep talking like that and you’ll have me thinking you’re in love with me,” the Initiate laughed.

            Quinlan chuckled and scratched the ears of the only creature he was in love with. “If I were, Molly would have words with me.”

            Haylen snickered. “I’ll go drop off my copy to Proctor Ingram.”

            “Thank you, Senior Scribe.” Quinlan peeled off from the group to go to his office. He should have suspected Hardin – the man had betrayed McNamara after all – but it was time to be certain that there weren’t more traitors in the Brotherhood.

            They all strengthened the alloy of the Brotherhood with their steel in their own way. And Kells was _wrong_ – the best steel was sharp, yes, but also with a solid core that lent flexibility to the sword that was the Brotherhood. Arthur was the sharpness and Lady Maxson the core of the sword – as it should be.

…

“I snuck out some cakes for you.”

            Danse found it in him to smile at Cait as she held out two slightly grimy Fancy Lads Snack Cakes in one hand as she pushed the meal trolley for Arthur, Sparrow and Knight-Captain Cade with the other. “Thanks,” he told the Initiate, currently working mess hall duty, and took the cakes. He hadn’t eaten all day because he wouldn’t leave his post at the infirmary door, leave Arthur (and his lady) unprotected.

            “Got a burger for you too,” Cait announced. “And a confession from Kells.”

            He accepted the mole rat burger on a razorgrain bun and bit into it, tasting the tangy tato sauce. They should keep Tuckey on mess hall duty permanently, the man was a genius in the kitchen. “How’d you manage that? Enhanced interrogation of Brotherhood members is forbidden.”

            “Quinlan fucked with his head, took his holotags and told him he was weak steel.” Cait handed him a bottle of Nuka-Cola to wash down the burger. “Pity. Would have liked to express my opinion of that fucker on his sorry carcass.”

            “Kells will be executed for his actions,” Danse informed her.

            “He’ll be ripped from the records too. Quinlan said _you_ had more of the Steel than he did.”

            Danse reflexively smiled at that. His status as a synth was now known and much to his surprise, he wasn’t being treated that differently by the rank and file. Maybe it was because he’d had to be pulled off Kells by two Paladins in power armour after the bastard shot Arthur. “Tell him thanks. I might be a toaster, but I’m not a fucking traitor.”

            “Nah, you’re an enhanced Securitron with extra good looks or something.” Cait snickered softly. “I better go feed Sparrow and her man because if I don’t, Neriah will feed me to the mole rats.”

            Danse stepped aside to let her through. There was a good heart in the brawler, though he wouldn’t tell her that. “You’re true Steel, Cait.”

            “From you, means a lot, big guy.” She smiled and opened the door to enter the infirmary.

            Danse turned his back on the door as it closed. What was in there wasn’t for him.

            After Arthur had pulled through surgery, Sparrow had taken him aside and explained exactly what kind of synth model he was, very gently, and thanked him for saving Arthur. It explained so much about his behaviour… and not enough.

            He would never command Recon Squad Gladius again. Machines didn’t command humans. He’d been left as Star Paladin – but it was an honorary rank. There was always the knowledge in the eyes of the Brotherhood that he was the exception, not the example. And he would be the only synth to ever serve in the Brotherhood.

            But he still had Arthur to protect and, if he should exist after that, the Maxson heirs. And the Brotherhood’s trust, which was something.

            It was something. It would have to be enough.

…

When Arthur came to, his chest hurt and there were tubes in places that he’d really rather they weren’t.

            Then the familiar scent of soap and female washed over him as Sparrow shifted in the seat next to his bed. “You weren’t kidding when you claimed Tuckey’s burgers could wake the half-dead,” she laughed at Cait, who was wheeling in a trolley full of food.

            “I’m awake for burger night? Praise the Steel,” Arthur rasped. He’d probably need it pureed into something he could drink but… Tuckey’s burgers.

            “Check up first, burger second,” Cade said firmly.

            “Asshole,” Cait told him.

            “I’m making sure he can eat solids.” Cade did the check up, injected him with two more stimpaks, and pronounced him able to eat proper food if it was cut into very small pieces.

            Arthur sighed inwardly. _Not_ how he wanted to eat one of Tuckey’s burgers. At least it wasn’t that disgusting green mineral drink Cade made everyone in the infirmary consume. Balanced it might be, but it tasted like the scrapings from the Prydwen’s septic tank.

            “And your drink.” Of course. Cade demonstrated a doctor’s known psyker powers by reading his mind and making him the foul green concoction.

            Elder Maxson really wasn’t the kind of man to be a good patient in a sickbed.

            “Danse’s at the door and I got him to eat a burger first,” Cait announced. “He didn’t drop dead, so it wasn’t poisoned.”

            No one chided her for paranoia. What had Kells done to the morale of the Brotherhood?

            Sparrow insisted on feeding him first. Each bite-sized piece of burger was heaven on earth, even if it was lukewarm now, and made the green mineral drink almost tolerable. The Nuka-Cola Cait poured into a mug for him with a wink while Cade’s back was turned washed away that scummy aftertaste nicely though.

            “Eat,” he told Sparrow firmly as Cade took the time to eat his own burger. She nodded and devoured her own cold meal without an argument. He needed to make sure that she ate sooner and more often.

            “There was dessert but I gave the cakes to Danse,” Cait said cheerfully. “He hadn’t eaten in over a day.”

            “Thank you, Cait.” He really needed to promote the brawler.

            “I _do_ have a recorded confession. Quinlan fucked with Kells’ head, got him to talk.” The Initiate pulled out a recorder and pressed play.

            Quinlan knew his job. With Kells’ treachery, a new Lancer-Captain would need to be found, and Hardin would pay for subverting the soldier. Arthur hadn’t known Quinlan had double-checked _him_ but wasn’t surprised. The man was thorough and methodical.

            When the holotape ended, Arthur nodded. “Good. When I’m up and about, I’ll be personally executing him.”

            “Good.” Cait’s green eyes were fierce. “Sparrow’s my friend and I don’t let people fuck with my friends or their men. Got a shotgun you can borrow or a baseball bat if you want to work off some rage.”

            “I have a personal weapon.” Final Judgment would live up to its name.

            “Alright.” Cait shrugged. “A man works best with his own tools anyway.”

            “Cait, consider yourself raised to Knight.” Arthur shifted, grunting in pain, and looked the woman in the eye. “And put on Sparrow’s personal staff if you’d like.”

            “Fucking hell I do.” The newly promoted Knight gave Sparrow a wry smile. “She’s so tender-hearted she needs a fucking keeper.”

            “I’ll have you know I did the run between Goodneighbour and Bunker Hill, with no one to back me up when I scavenged, for a few months before I came to the Brotherhood,” Sparrow said mildly. “And before I was frozen, my father taught me a few nasty tricks.”

            “Sparrow, sweetie, you’d walk up to an injured deathclaw trying to heal it,” Cait retorted.

            “I would not!” The Vault Dweller folded her arms across her chest. “My compassion doesn’t extend to things which could eat me.”

            _Yes, it does,_ Arthur thought wryly as he lay back on the pillows. That beautiful, big-hearted woman absolutely would.

            Cait took the hint, saluted and wheeled out the trolley. Cade dithered for a bit before going to check on other patients.

            “We nearly lost you,” Sparrow said starkly. “Before you go accusing traitors again, please have their weapons removed beforehand.”

            “I will,” he promised with a painful chuckle. “I’m… not the best patient.”

            “So I hear.” Sparrow turned in her seat, looking down at him. She looked exhausted and worn thin. “Cade’s giving you a week.”

            “Oh Eternal Steel…” Seven days of Cade’s drinking. Dying was almost preferable.

            “You’ve been out for three, so four to go.”

            “Well, that makes me feel a little better.” He looked at Sparrow. “Thank you for saving Danse.”

            “He’s your friend. And my family.” Those radstag-doe eyes were gentle. “Teaghlaigh do Theaghlaigh – ‘Family for Family’. It’s the Killian family motto.”

            Arthur tried to stumble his way through the foreign language. Sometimes, Sparrow called him things in what she called Irish Gaelic, the language of her ancestors.

            She touched his lips and he kissed the tips of her fingers. “Get some sleep,” she ordered.

            “Only if you do.”

            “I’ll try,” she promised before reaching for something on the bedside table.

            He barely felt the prick from the needle as she injected a sedative. As the soft darkness carried him away, he smiled, safe in the presence of his peace.

…

Arthur’s expression eased as he fell asleep. Sparrow pulled up the cotton sheet over him, kissed him on the forehead, and went to find Quinlan.

            The Proctor was still awake, going through files as he searched for any signs of a conspiracy. “He woke up, ate solids and went back to sleep,” Sparrow reported quietly. “He should be up and about within a few days.”

            “Good. Brandis reported that two people tried to break into the interrogation room. One was Knight Rhys, who bleeds Brotherhood and backed off when reminded it was Arthur’s right to perform the execution. The other was a Lancer named Smith who came from the Mojave Chapter originally.”

            Sparrow closed her eyes and when she opened them, a very different woman looked out. Quinlan blinked in surprise.

            “Elder Hardin decided to fuck with my family. I don’t care if I was frozen when he betrayed Arthur by letting his guardian die. I don’t care if it was only Kells’ paranoia acting up this time when he shot Arthur.” Sparrow let the cold fury she’d felt when Arthur lay helpless and bleeding on the ground wash through her. “I hate to put more work on you, but I need everything you know on Hardin. His friends, his associates, his politics, even his favourite meal.”

            “It will be my pleasure, Lady Maxson.” Quinlan’s thin smile told her he knew exactly what she planned to do.

            The war with the Institute needed to be won first. But when it was over, Elder Hardin would be discovering – the hard way – why you didn’t fuck with a Killian and her family. Arthur, for all his pragmatic warrior ways, was essentially honourable in how he approached internal issues.

            Sparrow had no such concerns. Kells was only the tip of the iceberg and she would rip out the entire noxious weed that threatened her family.

            _Teaghlaigh do Theaghlaigh_ – family for family.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, effects of war on people and fantastic racism. In my head-canon, the other factions are not idle in the Commonwealth…

 

Arthur hauled himself out of the infirmary two days before he should because the inaction and ignorance of what was going on in the Commonwealth was killing him more than the gunshot wounds. Danse, who knew him best, simply helped him limp back to his quarters and silently handed him a stimpak before the Elder pulled on a uniform and his battlecoat. Tonight he would sleep beside Sparrow, as he should, and know she wouldn’t be snatching naps in a chair beside him.

            They were walking towards the viewport of the command deck when something about an Initiate working on the Prydwen’s wiring alerted Danse. “Initiate, what are you doing?” the synth demanded harshly as he strode forward.

            The white-haired, dark-skinned woman’s eyes widened before she pulled out a laser gun and all hell broke loose.

            It was the first time Arthur had ever seen a synth fight another synth; Danse’s protection protocols kicked in and he moved with blinding speed, countering the woman’s attempt to shoot the Elder. “Alarum, alarum!” he yelled. “We’re under attack! Attackers are in Brotherhood uniforms!”

            “What the _hell_ , brother?” the female synth demanded as she blocked one of Danse’s strikes. “You should be helping us!”

            “I was built to be a bodyguard unit and you’re threatening my charge,” Danse countered harshly as he kneed her in the stomach.

            “Nice to know the Brotherhood are hypocrites, you poor bastard.” The synth’s eyes hardened. “Hate to do this, brother, but you’ll be dying for the freedom of synths ev-“

            Danse grabbed her by her armoured jacket and twisted to present her back to Arthur, who’d already drawn his personal laser pistol. He emptied an entire clip of fusion cells into her before the bodyguard-synth dropped her, crushing her larynx with a savage punch to the throat.

            “Thanks,” he told Arthur, breathing harshly, as the sounds of a brawl came from the engineering deck.

            “The gasbags!” he heard Ingram scream. “The fucker’s set charges on the gasbags!”

            Danse was sliding downstairs to the engineering deck, still riding the adrenaline of protecting his charge. Arthur limped towards the command deck, where he kept an emergency stash of stimpaks-

            A wiry, dark-haired man appeared before him, eyes shaded by sunglasses, laser pistol pointed directly at his head. “Elder Maxson, the big bad of the Brotherhood himself,” the man observed with a hint of sardonic humour. “It’s nothing personal, y’know, but for the whole you wanna kill all the synths thing.”

            Arthur snarled at the Railroad agent. “We’d actually reinterpreted doctrine to allow the sparing of non-combatant synths,” he rasped at the man.

            “How fucking nice of you.” The agent was sarcastic. “Where’s Glory?”

            “If she was the female synth, my bodyguard killed her,” the Elder retorted.

            “M7-97. She helped him escape, the ungrateful asshole.” The agent cocked the laser pistol. “Farewell, Elder Bigoted Asshole.”

            Then the click of a .44 revolver before firing was the only warning Arthur had before the agent’s head exploded.

            He threw up a hand against the blinding spray of blood and worse, lowering it to find the Railroad agent’s corpse on the ground and a _very_ pissed Sparrow standing with the heavy pistol in both hands standing before him. “Get those stimpaks and use all of them,” his lady commanded. “You need to be able to fight.”

            He obeyed her. Overuse of stimpaks would have its consequences but he needed to be able to fight now. Then he went for Final Judgment, hoping that he wouldn’t tear his healing wounds open by using the weapon.

            They made it in time to the flight desk to find a dead Knight-Paladin and a vertibird preparing for take-off. Arthur pulled his dead Brother from the power armour and entered it just as the vertibird dropped down for the launch.

            He made the most consciously insane decision he’d ever considered in his life: drop off the Prydwen’s flight deck, activate the jetpack, and land on the vertibird’s roof. If he could take it with him, Sparrow and the Prydwen would be safe.

            “The hell?” the Railroad agent yelled, flying erratically to try and shake Arthur off, but he’d already punched through the roof with both hands and flattened as the vertibird blades scraped the back of his power armour.

            With a massive twist of his body, Arthur used the momentum of the vertibird to turn it to the side and tip the Railroad agent out. Judging by the fading scream, he’d forgotten to wear the seatbelt.

            Then the vertibird crashed and Arthur with it.

…

“If it wasn’t for the power armour you’d be a red smear on the roof of Boston Airport.”

            Sparrow managed to keep her voice fairly level and calm as she addressed the battered, bruised and newly rehospitalised lunatic that she called her fiancé. Arthur’s chest was an ugly mass of scar tissue that – to quote Cade – was ‘more scar than skin’ and one of the wounds from Kells had broken open.

            “If I hadn’t, we’d _all_ be a red smear across the Commonwealth,” he pointed out softly.

            “I know just… Fuck, I nearly lost you twice in a week.” She shoved her hands through her hair, glaring down at him through the tears in her eyes. “That command to ‘don’t leave me’ applies to you from me, just so you know.”

            “I know.” His blue eyes peered up at her worriedly. “Sparrow, sweetheart, don’t cry.”

            “I’m not crying,” she lied. “These are tears of pure fucking rage.”

            She wiped her eyes. “We need to retaliate against the Railroad and I need to lead the mission.”

            “Like hell.” Now it was Arthur’s turn to lay down the law.

            “I know how to find their base, remember?” She folded her arms and stared down at Arthur grimly. “No one fucks with a Killian and her man. The Railroad’s about to learn that.”

            Arthur blinked as he saw her in a new light. Then he nodded slowly, lips tightening.

            “You will take Recon Squad Gladius and another two squads led by Senior Paladins at the very least,” he agreed reluctantly.

            “Done.”

            “You’ll lead them to the location and try to stay out of combat.”

            “I’ll do my best.”

            “You come home to me. Or I will kick my way into the afterlife and drag you back kicking and screaming.” His voice was firm, his blue eyes fervent.

            “I will,” she promised.

            “Then go now while they’re waiting for word back from their agents.” He leaned back in the pillows, obviously unhappy but knowing that no one else could do this.

            “I will. I love you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before leaving.

…

_“No one fucks with a Killian and her man. The Railroad’s about to learn that.”_

The healer, it seemed, had a savage side to her – one Arthur didn’t expect. The cold fury in her doe eyes floored the Elder when she looked at him. The rage of a queen deathclaw getting ready to ravage the fools who’d threatened her mate and nest.

            He wanted to shield her from the ruthless kind of operation that exterminating the Railroad required. He wanted to wrap himself around her, keep her safe and warm and the sweet, lovely-eyed woman he knew her to be.

            But at the moment, she was the only one he could trust to see the operation completed. He hoped that soon she’d the kind, gentle woman she usually was again.

            Arthur sighed and waited for Cade to sedate him. Ingram was already adding a combat breastplate to wear under his battlecoat because his chest was now more scar than skin, a potential vulnerability. Why couldn’t have the Railroad waited until he was fully fit to attack?

            _Because they’re spies, that’s why,_ he thought dourly. Damn them to hell.

            Cade sedated him and he fell into darkness. He hoped that Sparrow would be back by the time he returned.

…

It was a massacre.

            Sparrow slipped through the base as the Paladins wiped out the Railroad agents to salvage the Predictive Analytic Machine for the Brotherhood. One holotape and a few keystrokes later, the pre-War robot and everything it knew was theirs, and she stood in the office feeling a little sick as her anger ran its course. Kells had been planning to wipe out the Railroad and they’d figured it out, so they attacked first.

            But as always, the Brotherhood of Steel attacked last and finished the war.

            The last gunshot rang out and Sparrow sighed. Time to read the butcher’s bill.

            “Turns out all we had to do was wipe out the last remnants of their leadership because they’d send their chief heavy, agent and tech guy on the Red Rockets mission, as they called the attack on the Prydwen,” Brandis reported with a salute as she emerged from the office. There were two injured Paladins and a dead Knight but otherwise, the casualties were all on the Railroad’s side. “What are we doing now, Lady Maxson?”

            “Clear out all the technology and files,” she ordered, pulling out three charges. “When you’re done, I’m blowing this place sky-high.”

            The robot helped them move everything to the vertibirds outside. Sparrow set the charges and evacuated the Railroad HQ.

            She triggered the charges when they were a hundred feet in the air, the Old North Church collapsing in on itself as the catacombs were exploded.

            The Brotherhood soldiers cheered and she managed a thin mechanical smile. A year ago in her reckoning, she could never have coldly insisted on leading a revenge attack on an organisation who, if they’d gotten to her before Arthur did, she might have supported.

            A year ago, she was Sparrow Finlay, the struggling wife of a broken soldier, mother to a beautiful baby boy.

            Now she was Sparrow Maxson, the vengeful wife of a young general, leader of a military organisation.

            Her parents would be proud. But she… she was heartsick and exhausted. She wanted to go home, wrap herself in a blanket and listen to old holotapes while leaning her head on Arthur’s shoulder.

            But there was still one more battle in the war to win and then the internal inquisition for the traitors who supported Elder Hardin before she could even think of resting.

            War never changed but those who suffered through it certainly did.

…

The Railroad’s HQ was annihilated with their own weapons. Sparrow Finlay certainly had a flair for karmic retribution.

            His mother, for all her intelligence, was a creature of impulse and emotion. The Brotherhood of Steel had seduced her with their rhetoric of vengeance and so-called kinship before the Institute could have persuaded her with logic and the real connection of mother and son. She could have made the Institute a better place and lived a far superior life to the one she’d chosen.

            Shaun sighed and coughed more blood into his handkerchief. What was done was done. Sparrow Finlay was an enemy and Shaun never let sentiment get in the way of protecting the Institute.

            “We will take the power source tomorrow while the Brotherhood celebrates,” he said over his shoulder to X6-88, his oldest and dearest friend. “Then we will bring down the Prydwen.”

            “Understood, sir,” the Courser agreed. “Will you have any trouble killing your mother?”

            Shaun shook his head. “No. I’ll be putting her out of her misery.”

            What a waste. What a fucking waste.

…

“Getting wheeled around. This is doing wonders for my reputation.”

            “You threw a vertibird to the ground. I don’t think a few days in a wheelchair’s going to dent it,” Danse said dryly as he pushed Arthur into the command deck.

            “I’ve made better life choices, I’m sure.” He leaned back in the wheelchair as Danse locked the wheels.

            “I should have stayed with you.” Danse’s voice was self-blaming.

            “You engaged what you thought was the bigger threat,” Arthur reassured him. “Besides, Sparrow saved my life.”

            “True.” Danse sighed. “I don’t want to be Elder Hardin when she gets her hands on him.”

            Arthur’s eyes widened as he looked up to the synth. “She _wouldn’t._ ”

            “Hardin flipped several switches when he subverted Kells and Sparrow learned a lot about justice from her spy mother and mobster father,” Danse countered. “I think she’s normally a very sweet, very lovely lady but Eternal Steel help the fool who threatens those she holds dear.”

            That… was a good point. Arthur had been a little unnerved by her eyes when she told him she was going to lead the attack against the Railroad.

            The sound of three vertibirds docking got their attention. Within minutes, Sparrow was on the command deck in her new black uniform, looking exhausted and a little sick. “It’s done,” she said as an Assaultron followed Star Paladin Brandis – it had to be the Predictive Analytical Machine – to Ingram’s workshop. “The Railroad is… finished.”

            “Good.” Arthur looked up at her shamefacedly. “I should have led the assault.”

            “Your scar tissue’s the only thing holding your chest together at the moment,” she said with flat accuracy. “I’m… not proud of myself. But it’s done.”

            Danse went to the doorway to the viewport to give them some privacy and Arthur took his betrothed’s hand. “I would have kept you from this war,” he rasped softly. “But aside from Danse, you’re the only one I can trust.”

            “Asked me a year ago if I could have coldly hacked a computer while people were killed and I’d’ve said no,” she sighed. “Now…”

            “Hardin is mine.” Sparrow gave him a startled glance and he squeezed her hand. “I know you want to handle him, probably discreetly, but an example must be made. He arranged the murder of an Elder and since my position as High Elder relies on me defeating the Institute, I can’t deal with him then. But since I have Kells’ recorded confession…”

            “Is he still breathing?”

            “No. Someone killed him during the Railroad attack.” And Arthur was going to find out who.

            “Damn.” The curse was soft and fervent. “What now?”

            “Recon Squad Gladius takes Proctor Ingram to the Mass Fusion HQ tomorrow. There’s the final piece we need to get Liberty Prime moving.” Arthur then allowed a grim smile. “Then we deal with the Institute now and forever.”

            Sparrow nodded, shuddering in what he supposed was a mixture of relief and horror. Relief to know the end was in sight… Horror to no doubt know her son would be dead soon.

            Arthur looked out at the ruins of Boston. Cade had delivered a particular report. He now had an extra reason to wipe the Institute from the earth and sow the ashes with salt. Then maybe they could both know peace.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, child soldiers and fantastic racism. These next couple chapters will be shorter because the war against the Institute begins in earnest. Slightly AU Airship Down mission. Please don’t hate me, hate the muse.

 

Sparrow had missed her period. Taking a deep breath, suddenly elated and terrified in equal measure, she approached Cade about a pregnancy test. It had been a stressful few weeks, so an erratic cycle could be a possibility, but if she _was_ expecting…

            It would be a welcome bit of news after the past two weeks.

            She sat in Cade’s office as he ran the test. Arthur was overseeing the mission to Mass Fusion for the reactor to power Liberty Prime from the command deck, Danse standing guard over him, and she was useless up there at the moment. The Railroad mission still had her raw, the knowledge that she really was her parents’ offspring – and Shaun’s mother – painful to contemplate. That she wouldn’t act any different given the chance to do it all again terrified her.

            When the Knight-Captain emerged from his little lab, a broad smile on his features, she had the answer she both wanted and feared.

            “I’ll go tell him,” she said, rising to her feet. “How long?”

            “About a month,” Cade said. “So pretty much the first time you were together, if scuttlebutt is accurate.”

            The Lord moved in mysterious ways. Arthur had her three times that morning, the first time they’d ever made love.

            “Thanks,” Sparrow told Cade before turning around. She needed to sound triumphant, not pants-shitting scared, when she announced the news that there were baby Maxsons on the way.

…

“Despite heavy synth resistance, we have the reactor,” Brandis announced over the radio. “Requesting extraction for myself and Proctor Ingram.”

            “Teams Scabbard and Pride, you are go. Recon Squad Gladius are the most important members of the Brotherhood today, so do whatever it takes to get them up here,” Arthur commanded.

            “Scabbard and Pride are moving out,” announced the vertibird pilot for Scabbard.

            “Teams Cambridge and Capital, you are to proceed on foot from the police station to Mass Fusion. Kill anything that isn’t a civilian and get the civilians out of the way. Use extreme prejudice against the synths.”

            “Cambridge and Capital are moving out,” responded Paladin Rhys, who now commanded Cambridge.

            “Teams Alpha, Artemis, Apollo, Tranquility and Normandy, fall back to the two-mile exclusion zone and shut down access to the airport. Until Liberty Prime is ready, no one enters or leaves unless they’re known personnel and pass our new synth test.” Neriah and Ingram had been… efficient.

            “Falling back,” Lancer-Captain Gavel, the replacement for Kells, announced.

            “All leave is cancelled until the Institute is defeated. We are officially in pre-battle lockdown.”

            “Acknowledged.” Gavel once more.

            “After analysing variables, there is a 92% of the Institute already initiating their counterattack,” P.A.M announced. “Most likely scenarios revolve around synth infiltration and a direct attack on Liberty Prime.”

            “Copy that,” Gavel confirmed. “No offence, Elder Maxson, but that robot has a better bodyguard than you for the next few days.”

            “None taken, Lancer-Captain.” Arthur shifted in his wheelchair, wishing he could at least stand for this. But Cade had told him that if he pushed himself one more time, he’d be handcuffed to a hospital bed for a month. “See it all done.”

            He looked up at Sparrow, who’d gone to see the Knight-Captain about something earlier this morning. Her face was deadpan, eyes bright and lips tight, and she’d clasped her hands over her stomach.

            “Then let’s get going, Brotherhood of Steel,” he ordered. “Ad Victoriam!”

            “Ad Victoriam!” everyone responded before getting to the real work.

            He wheeled himself over to Sparrow, who looked a little peaky. “Is something wrong, sweetheart?” he asked quietly.

            She took a deep breath. “Arthur Maxson, Elder of the Eastern Brotherhood of Steel, I have the honour to announce that we’re expecting a baby in roughly eight months.”

            It took a moment for the words to click. And then Danse’s hands were on his shoulders to stop him springing out of the wheelchair and hugging Sparrow tightly, earning the bodyguard-synth a glare from the father-to-be. But Danse was grinning as the remaining staff reacted with gasps and cheers.

            His betrothed reached out and took his large hands, killer’s hands, and placed them on her stomach. Arthur’s fingers splayed across the still-flat expanse as he struggled to find words to articulate his feelings. Pride, joy and fear mingled into one sublime whole that shattered his world… and reconfigured it.

            This… was what he was fighting for. Not a doctrine forged from steel and fire, the joyous heat of battle or even to save the world. He was fighting so that, maybe, his children wouldn’t have to do so much of it. That they could be adults before they killed for the first time. That when they were ten, they were learning how to read and write instead of how to stab a man in the kidneys.

            Arthur’s legendary composure cracked… and then broke. For the first time since Sarah Lyons died, he wept. Sparrow’s arms were around him, his head buried against her breasts and long, loose hair hanging over them both.

            “Ad Victoriam,” he whispered to the child in the womb. _To Victory._

…

Cade let Arthur return to his quarters because the Knight-Captain knew the Elder would be too agitated otherwise. Then the tense waiting for the reactor to be delivered safely to Boston Airport began.

            It began with Scabbard and Pride being shot down in their vertibirds and the two ground teams being ambushed by Coursers. Arthur scrambled Apollo and Artemis to cover them before contracting all forces around the Airport to protect Liberty Prime, warning the settlers to arm themselves and hide from any incoming synths.

            Then the invasion began: almost one hundred Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths commanded by Coursers who obeyed a dark-skinned one. Alpha, Arthur’s own squad, and Normandy fell back to protect Liberty Prime as the Coursers unleashed carnage despite Tranquility using mini-guns to shred most of the simpler synths.

            P.A.M. went rigid: “Analysis: likelihood of Institute hacking Liberty Prime to bring down the Prydwen is 100%.”

            Danse swore viciously and Arthur looked to him. “Get down there and command the battle,” he ordered before announcing over the intercom that the Star Paladin was in charge of defending the Airport and all teams would answer to him.

            No one was stupid enough to argue. Danse ran for his power armour and Arthur turned around to command Sparrow to get into a vertibird and flee the Prydwen. The Maxson lineage would continue through the child in her womb and he’d buy her time to escape.

            But she was missing.

            “Elder Maxson, what the hell’s going on?” Senior Scribe Neriah demanded over the intercom. “Lady Maxson’s just jumped into the Sentinel power armour and is heading for the flight deck.”

            “Sparrow, get back here!” Arthur commanded.

            “No. If Danse is commanding the ground defence, you’ll need someone to stop the synth hacking Liberty Prime,” she retorted. “You can’t do it and we don’t have anyone else who can handle power armour.”

            “You need to get out of here! As soon as you announced you were pregnant, you became non-expendable!”

            “Arthur, the Coursers would just shoot down the vertibird.” Sparrow’s voice was calm. “It’s X6-88 leading the attack – Shaun’s personal bodyguard and assassin Courser.”

            “She’s right, Arthur,” Teagan said unhappily. “She’s pregnant, not helpless.”

            “Someone in Sentinel armour’s just jumped off the Prydwen,” reported one of the flight crew.

            Arthur’s heart twisted. His beautiful courageous wife was going into a hot zone and he, the warrior, was too fucking helpless to stop her. The Brotherhood’s fate was in her hands now.

…

X6-88 stepped back as a figure in silvery power armour landed between him and the synth uploading the virus to Liberty Prime, knees buckling as the shock absorbers redistributed the force of the fall, and then stood up straight. There was no helmet to obscure the face of Sparrow Finlay or the narrow-eyed, tight-lipped expression that the Courser knew from Father’s face. Mother and son were more alike than either would admit. “I wouldn’t advise interfering, ma’am,” the synth advised warily. She’d killed Z2-47 _and_ Kellogg after all. “You could rejoin the Institute. Shaun… your son… is dying.”

            She remained silent, clenching the gauntlets of the power armour, and the Courser sighed. “I need only delay you until the virus is complete,” he pointed out.

            “X6-88, initialise factory reset. Authorisation code Gamma-4-7-Rain.”

            He had a moment to feel horror before his processes shut down. Father had given her his…

…

Sparrow turned around and smashed in the head of the hacking synth before looking to the side and throwing up. She couldn’t have won in a battle against the synth and so yet again she used a reset code. The flash of horror on X6-88’s face said it all.

            The battle wasn’t yet over. Two Coursers were alive, both of them focusing on Danse, but there were enough synths to give the remnants of Alpha, Normandy and Tranquility trouble. Sparrow grabbed the flamer that Ingram used for soldering plates together on Liberty Prime and strode forward into the battle. Time to turn the tide.

…

Danse swore as he saw Lady Maxson enter battle with a flamer. The Coursers had him pinned down, inflicting numerous minor wounds, and there were at least twenty remaining synths.

            Unfortunately, the Coursers saw Sparrow as well. “Father’s Mother,” one of them growled. “He should die knowing that ungrateful bitch is dead.”

            That one died as Danse used Righteous Authority to perforate his synthetic body. But that gave the other one enough time to close in and tackle her, a combat knife flashing in her hand as it went for Sparrow’s unprotected eyes.

            The synthetic Paladin let the adrenaline flow through him as the fusion core reading flashed twenty percent. He dashed forward and slammed into the Courser, knife spinning uselessly, and let the momentum carry them forth.

            “Knights, protect Lady Maxson!” he roared, built-in power fist ramming into the Courser’s chest repeatedly. Then the female Courser wrapped her legs around Danse’s waist and _twisted_.

            The Paladin’s legs collapsed uselessly as his spine broke and she began to wriggle out from under him with a savage grin.

            In every set of power armour, there was a particular button that was a Paladin’s final option. Danse pressed it before the Courser could escape.

            White fire took him as the fusion core overloaded and his last thought was of Arthur and the look on his face as he’d touched Sparrow’s pregnant belly. A good reason to return to the Eternal Steel for, if a synth had a soul.

…

“The Institute invasion has been defeated.” That was Lancer-Captain Gavel’s voice, heavy with grief. “Lady Maxson’s intervention defeated the hacking synth and Star Paladin Danse’s overloading of his power armour fusion core saved her life.”

            Arthur forced himself to keep his voice level. “Star Paladin Danse has returned to the Eternal Steel and his metal will strengthen the alloy of us all.”

            “He was truly Steel, in body as in soul,” Gavel agreed gravely.

            “Now get my fucking wife up back here immediately and sweep the Airport for more synths.”

            Sparrow returned with the charred remains of Danse, her face white as snow as she gently laid the dead synth Paladin down on the command deck. “Our firstborn child will have Danse’s name and if anyone disagrees, I’ll have their fucking head,” she vowed fiercely.

            No one was going to be that stupid. Arthur waited for her to step out of the Sentinel armour and walk towards him before wheeling himself up and grabbing her hands. “Never again,” he said flatly. “You will never enter battle again without my permission.”

            “So long as I have the option, I won’t, I promise,” she said softly. “I’d just remembered X6-88’s reset code and when P.A.M said they were hacking…”

            He tightened his grip on her fingers and brought them to his lips, kissing them raggedly as tears pricked his eyes.

            “Recon Squad Gladius made it back,” he announced once he raised his face again. “Tomorrow, we activate Liberty Prime and invade the Institute’s sanctum. Tomorrow, we purge them from the Sanctuary, in the name of Danse, Teams Scabbard and Pride, and every other soldier who died here today. Tomorrow, we will have vengeance and victory!”

            “Ad Victoriam,” Sparrow said softly – and it was the ring of a death-knell, the whispered promise of death for their enemies.

            The healer had embraced war and the warlord only wanted peace. May the Eternal Steel have mercy on them all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, grief/mourning, violence and fantastic racism. As I said, other factions haven’t been idle in my head-canon… This story decided to stretch itself out by a chapter or two. Bad muse!

 

“It’s going to take a week to have Liberty Prime ready to go,” Madison Li announced, her eyes dull coals of exhaustion in her pale face. The remaining staff at the Boston Airport were subdued but feverish at the same time, working at all hours to get the robot ready to avenge their dead comrades. Even Madison, the quintessential idealist, wanted blood. “Shaun Finlay won’t wait that long to retaliate.”

            Everyone had aged years since the Institute invasion day before last. Fully half the ground command staff were dead and two thirds of the seasoned Paladins and Knights. Danse was buried with a Brotherhood flag wrapped around his charred remains as a shroud, a recovery team had gotten what was left of Scabbard and Pride, and the remnants of Cambridge and Capital limped home yesterday under the command of Paladin Rhys. The Prydwen still flew and Liberty Prime was theirs… but a third of the forces and half their vertibirds were lost.

            “We need more muscle,” Lancer-Captain Gavel said reluctantly. “Not just a few mercenaries, but at least thirty, forty competent soldiers.”

            “The Gunners?” Cait suggested, leaning against the wall.

            “No, they’re scum,” Haylen said grimly. “I could probably talk MacCready into helping us, which makes for a good sniper, but the kind of muscle you’re saying we need…”

            “The Minutemen,” Sparrow said, pushing up from the war table. “Their leader Preston Garvey owes me his life. And I have a member of the family to collect from Sanctuary anyway.”

            “And they have as much reason to fight the Institute as we do,” Teagan pointed out. “We got trade with them – so far as we don’t push north or west, we’ve been pretty good with them and we’ve cooperated against mutual enemies.”

            “You’re going to go, aren’t you?” Arthur asked Sparrow unhappily. He was still in his wheelchair but out of the infirmary because the beds were needed for the survivors of the synth invasion.

            “I’ll have to. But you can come too,” she pointed out.

            “They’ve recently retaken the Castle,” Teagan added. “Turns out there was a fair chunk of materiel hidden beneath those walls.”

            “We made it possible for them to do so,” Arthur noted.

            “And then stripped much of the infrastructure,” Sparrow reminded him. “I’d say we’re fairly even aside from Garvey owing me one.”

            Her fiancé scowled but nodded in acknowledgement of the truth in her statement. “Contact them. I might be able to offer them a sweetener of a superior communications system to the one they had.”

            Sparrow nodded. “I’ll catch a vertibird to Diamond City. Nick might know a few people willing to lend a hand and Piper will want to be on the action with an exclusive for her paper.”

Sparrow leaned over and kissed Arthur on the lips. “I’ll be back before sunset.”

            “I hope so.” He pressed his forehead to hers for a moment, sighing, before letting her go.

            She would come back to him. Always.

…

“Sparrow!”

            Nick hugged her with rib-cracking force, memories of the BADTFL detective he’d been flickering in his circuitry. Then he stepped back, yellow synth eyes taking in the details of the haggard expression, grim lines around eyes and mouth, and the black Brotherhood uniform. “So, the rumours were true,” he noted.

            “More than true,” she admitted as she took a seat at his gesture. “Has the Brotherhood been giving you any trouble? I can drop a few words in important ears.”

            He sat down behind his desk. “They’ve been politer than I expected. Hell, they even behave in Goodneighbour.”

            “Good. Doctrine’s… been rattled lately.” Shadows and scars marked Sparrow’s brown eyes. “One of the most loyal members of the Brotherhood turned out to be a synth. Then he died protecting me during the battle for Boston Airport.”

            “Huh, if it makes that young warlord Maxson think, so much the better.” The Elder had treated him like a Securitron with a personality, which was moderately annoying but better than being turned into scrap. “But what’s this about a battle? I saw two vertibirds shot down yesterday.”

            “We secured a power source for a weapon,” Sparrow said quietly. “The Institute were apparently going to use it to power something else, so they invaded the Airport and tried to hack our weapon. Star Paladin Danse, who’d been discovered as a synth but permitted to remain in the Brotherhood because of his devotion to Arthur, took out two Coursers that were trying to kill me but died doing so.”

            Nick had met the quiet Paladin once. “Damn, I’m sorry. Why were the Coursers trying to kill you?”

            “I was stopping the third protecting the synth which was hacking our weapon,” Sparrow answered grimly. “Nearly a week before the Institute tried to destroy us, the Railroad snuck on board and planted charges, intending to blow the Prydwen from the sky.”

            “…That explains Old North Church blowing up,” Nick observed grimly.

            Sparrow raised her eyes and Nick saw a flash of his old friend Frances in them. “They nearly killed my fiancé, Nick, and me too. Pre-emptive attack because apparently a traitor had set in motion plans to wipe them out…”

            Nick blinked. “Fiancé?”

            “…I haven’t seen you since before the infiltration of the Institute, have I?” she asked in surprise.

            “No, you haven’t.” Ellie entered the office, having just finished the shopping, and smiled to Sparrow. “Hello! Did you find your son?”

            The pre-War survivor’s face went grim. “I did.” Then she proceeded to fill him in on almost everything that happened since then.

            When it was done, Nick took some time to process the information. Sparrow getting married to a young warlord, expecting another baby, planning the final assault on the Institute… That was led by her missing son. Comfortable with war, though still rightfully sickened by it.

            “I want to be there when you take them down,” Nick heard himself saying. “Just make sure none of those Brotherhood goons you call friends shoot me, okay?”

            “I’ll make sure,” she promised with a weary smile. “I better go. I need to see if the Minutemen want to join the festivities.”

            “Garvey’s at the Dugout Inn,” Nick told her. “I’ll come with you.”

            Sparrow nodded and rose to her feet. “Let’s go.”

            He still wasn’t sure what to make of the woman his old friend’s daughter had become but he’d always known she’d change the Commonwealth. Hopefully it would be for the better.

…

Preston Garvey was swallowing the last of his beer, wondering where McDonough’s sudden surge of hostility – even for him – came from, when Sparrow Finlay, the Woman Out of Time, walked into the Dugout Inn wearing a Brotherhood officer’s uniform… and with Nick Valentine at her side. Judging by her expression, she was looking for him.

            He recalled the scared-looking woman who’d fled from Sanctuary after helping him at Concord and contrasted her with the hard-eyed veteran before him. If Sparrow was looking for peace, she hadn’t found it with the Brotherhood of Steel.

            Still, there were worse neighbours. Shame about the Railroad though. Preston doubted that Maxson would give him answers. Probably not Sparrow either if she was wearing the black uniform. Shame he couldn’t have gotten her to join the Minutemen.

            “Can we take a seat?” she asked quietly, looking around to see if the crowd was listening. Whatever she wanted had to be important.

            “If you’re up to a walk, I was just heading out to Hangman’s Alley,” he told her.

            Her eyebrow rose and then she nodded. “Works for me.”

            It was a bright dusty day, the sort where the world held its breath and waited out the heat of summer. Once they were past the Diamond City security line, Sparrow relaxed subtly. “How much do you know about the events of the past few weeks?”

            “The destruction of the Old North Church and open battles at Mass Fusion and the Airport,” Garvey admitted warily.

            “The Railroad attacked us before a traitor could initiate an attack against them,” Sparrow said bluntly. “They laid charges on the Prydwen and would have blown us all to hell. I’m… not proud of leading the counterattack, but when you see a Railroad agent pointing a gun at the fiancé who was shot recently, you don’t tend to react… politely.”

            “She’s marrying Maxson,” Nick observed dryly, lighting up a smoke.

            “Elder Maxson, huh? Can’t say as I agree with the man _personally_ but I can’t fault how the Brotherhood is treating the settlements under its control,” Preston conceded. “I assume the battles were with the Institute?”

            “We lost a lot of good soldiers but we have a weapon capable of punching through the Institute’s roof – literally,” Sparrow confirmed grimly. “But it’s going to take a week to be ready and frankly, we need allies. The Minutemen have a stake in the destruction of the Institute too.”

            Before Preston could answer, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a sheaf of papers with diagrams on them. “A better communications network than the one Arthur stripped from the Castle,” she said, offering them to him.

            He examined the diagrams and whistled. Sturges would have a field day with them. “It’s much appreciated, Sparrow. We’ve got artillery in a fair few settlements now, so the northwest is pretty well defended, but it’s coordination that’s a problem.”

            She raised an eyebrow and he chuckled. “Don’t worry, we won’t be turning the guns on the vertibirds or the Prydwen. As I said, don’t agree with the Brotherhood, but for the most part you’ve been good neighbours with us. Speaking of Goodneighbour, it’s allied with us, so I’d appreciate Brotherhood leaving the ghouls alone.”

            “Given that’s a fairly popular rec spot for off-duty Brotherhood folks, you won’t get an argument from us,” Sparrow agreed wryly. “Doctrine’s been shaken up a fair bit – non-combatant synths who’ve escaped will be left alone, those who surrender will be judged individually, and only those who actively engage in hostilities against the Eastern Brotherhood will be killed. Ghouls _haven’t_ been discussed yet but I, _personally_ , see no reason why they can’t be left alone.”

            “That’s fair enough.” Preston scratched the scar on his face. “There’s a lot of settlers with grudges against the Institute who might be willing to-“

            He held up a hand as Freedom Radio stopped playing music and crackled with an incoming message. “General, this is Ronnie Shaw. For some goldurn reason we’ve got synths attacking the Castle. You’d better get back here.”

            “Colonel, this is Garvey. I copy that.” He looked to Sparrow. “Can you scramble some air support until we get there?”

            “I can do better.” Sparrow pulled out a grenade and threw it, ionised smoke rising into the sky. Within five minutes a vertibird arrived, the Knight piloting the thing looking worried. “Lady Maxson, what’s going on?”

            “The Institute has anticipated our plans,” Sparrow said as she chivvied Nick and Preston on. “The Castle’s being overrun by synths who don’t want the Minutemen allying with us. We need to get General Garvey there.”

            “Got it.” The Knight’s face was grim. “Should we scramble vertibird support?”

            Sparrow paused and pursed her lips. “Set up comms with Elder Maxson. That’s his decision, not mine.”

            “Brace yourself,” Nick advised as the vertibird took off and Preston obeyed.

            “Sparrow, what’s going on?” The rough rasp of Maxson’s voice crackled over the vertibird’s radio.

            “Synths are attacking the Castle. The Minutemen can’t use their artillery without trashing their own home.”

            “And you’re going to charge in there to save Garvey’s ass _again_?”

            Preston winced. That was insulting… but also fairly accurate.

            “Actually, we’re ferrying him to the fight, love. If we want them to join the festivities…” Sparrow’s voice was pointed.

            “I _get_ it. I can spare one vertibird and Cambridge Team under Paladin Rhys.” Arthur’s voice was tight with frustration.

            “Works for me. Rhys is an ass but he’s a competent one.” They were over the harbour now and Garvey looked down in awe. The Commonwealth changed from the sky.

            “We appreciate this, Elder,” he said, remembering to offer some gratitude. “We’ve had worse neighbours in the Commonwealth than the Brotherhood of Steel.”

            “We’ve had worse neighbours than the Minutemen,” Arthur agreed wryly. “Just… don’t get my betrothed killed. She’s pregnant.”

            “Congratulations.” He could see the Castle from here. “Ronnie, this is Garvey. The Brotherhood can spare us a couple vertibirds and a team led by a Paladin. I’m coming in on one.”

            “How kind of them.” Ronnie’s voice said plenty.

            “They took heavy losses recently, Colonel, but they’ve got the Institute on the ropes,” Preston explained grimly. “Those bastards are sending synths to the Castle to make sure we don’t ally with the Brotherhood.”

            “Goldurn sons of radroaches! Alright, what’s ETA? We’ve repelled two waves already.”

            “Five minutes,” the Knight answered.

            “See you soon, General. Don’t keep us waiting.” Ronnie’s connection died.

            “I suppose you’re going to jump off the vertibird and charge right in?” Arthur’s tone had turned both worried and acid.

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sparrow answered as she positioned herself at the mini-gun. “I’m not wearing power armour.”

            There was a story in there that Garvey _really_ wanted to know. “If things get hot, get out of here,” he told Sparrow.

            “Got it.”

            Then they were over the battlefield and Garvey swore as he saw the twisted tangles of metal and plastic interspersed with the bloody corpses of his Minutemen. As the vertibird touched down, he was already cranking up his musket to line up a shot, Nick Valentine climbing down behind him.

            The Minutemen had done nothing to the Institute yet they’d attacked the people of the Commonwealth repeatedly. Garvey would have allied with the Brotherhood against mutual enemies but now, the battle was personal.

            One thing troubled him – how had they known of a potential alliance so quickly?

            But it was time to fight for the Castle and the Commonwealth. He could ponder these questions later.

…

“This is Lady Maxson. The attack on the Castle was repelled and damn, are the Minutemen _pissed_.”

            Arthur sighed in relief. “How many casualties?”

            “One Initiate and a few Minutemen. Garvey and Shaw really have ‘em trained up well.” Sparrow chuckled softly over the radio. “If Ronnie Shaw were in the Brotherhood, she’d be Sentinel easy. I wager you’d make you jump when she gave the order.”

            “I’d prefer she didn’t. Cade tells me I’ll be out of the wheelchair by the end of the week.” He needed to participate in this battle for reasons both personal and political, consequences be damned.

            “Preston brought up a point,” Sparrow said over the radio. “Literally within the half hour of him walking out of the Dugout Inn with me and Nick, the Castle was attacked. Diamond City’s been compromised somehow.”

            “Piper believes it’s McDonough,” the General said grimly. “Lord knows the man doesn’t like the Minutemen and he’s been even more savage than usual.”

            “If you’re willing to join us on the Prydwen, I can share the details of the battle plan,” Arthur invited. It would also bring Sparrow back sooner.

            “Ronnie?” Garvey was obviously addressing his second.

            “Do it and keep the radio link up. I probably forgot more on warfare than you’ve ever learned.” Ronnie Shaw reminded Arthur of so many veteran Paladins – never commanders unless they had to be but perfect seconds. Like Danse had been.

            Arthur blinked back the tears. He would avenge his friend.

            Within half an hour Sparrow was back with Preston Garvey at her side. “Nick’s going to stay with the Minutemen forces,” she explained to Arthur. “He’s a little uncomfortable at the possibility of being shot at by some of our brethren.”

            The Elder nodded, more relieved to see her intact than offended. Nick had been given clearance to be left alone. He was doing good work.

            “That’s the official story. Unofficially he’s going to rouse Piper and investigate McDonough,” Preston said quietly. “I’ve lent him a couple people if he needs it.”

            Arthur nodded once again and turned his wheelchair around. He was, at least, dressed in full uniform even if his battlecoat was too heavy to wear yet.

            He was walking around for a bit every day, to and from the toilet mostly, and the inactivity chafed him raw. But the gunshots and having a vertibird crashing on him had done too much damage to his chest for him to risk pushing himself too soon.

            “Sparrow tells me you had a traitor in your ranks,” Preston said softly as they walked to the command deck.

            “Kells. He betrayed one Elder and shot me.” Arthur was terse in his explanation. “Then the Railroad attacked and forced me to push myself too far. I’ll be out of this fucking thing in a week, thank the Steel.”

            “I’m sorry about your losses,” Preston said diplomatically. “Sparrow tells me you’ll be leaving escaped synths alone.”

            “And probably most of the non-combatants at the Institute if they’re wise enough to surrender,” Arthur confirmed. “But those responsible for the synth programme itself need to be executed.”

            “You’ll get no argument from me. I heard that Brotherhood doctrine got shook up.”

            “My best friend – practically my brother – was an escaped synth who died saving my wife and unborn heir.” It hurt to talk about Danse because the pain of his loss still burned. “Synths can’t join the Brotherhood but so long as they don’t hurt anyone, I won’t hunt them in the Commonwealth.”

            _We have our own problems to deal with._

“Are you staying once the war’s won?” Garvey asked carefully.

            “A Chapter will be established here, yes,” the Elder confirmed. “Settlements have gotten used to our protection and several of my people want to retire into Brotherhood civilian roles. But we have no more intention of claiming more territory than we have.”

            “Fair enough. Are you open to trading civilian technology?”

            Arthur sighed. “It depends. Some of my fellow Elders would argue sharing the agricultural technology with our loyal settlements and the communications networking with you borders on treason. I need to take my place as High Elder to interpret the doctrine to find a balance between necessity and compassion.”

            “Borders on treason?” Garvey’s voice was neutral.

            “I’m a Maxson, of the bloodline that founded the order, so by definition it isn’t treason when I make a decision.”

            “Hmm, little too questionable for me. But the Minutemen are citizen soldiers who protect each other and themselves,” Preston finally said. “If the Brotherhood’s willing to play nice with us, we’ll play nice with you.”

            “I have no intention of starting wars with people who have artillery.” The vertibirds had gotten some _very_ good looks at the Minutemen’s ordnance in action.

            “Wise.” They reached the war table and arranged themselves about it, Sparrow going to stand at his side. If anything happened to Arthur in the coming battle, he trusted that his Vault Dweller would have the strength to survive the Brotherhood factional wars that would follow.

            After outlining the plan to use Liberty Prime, Preston conferred with Shaw before replying. “We’re allied with Bunker Hill,” he said. “I’ll have Minutemen there ready to guard the route.”

            “That would be helpful if you could clear the path for us,” Arthur agreed. “We’ll take the bulk of the fighting within the Institute itself once Liberty Prime breaks through.”

            “Hire MacCready to command your snipers,” Sparrow advised as she pointed to several points on the route. “If we keep a vertibird in the air and have a ham radio with each sniper, we can provide real-time updates.”

            “Yeah, that works,” Preston agreed. “Honestly, Minutemen tend to be snipers and guerrilla fighters anyway. Most of our enemies don’t need giant robots to combat.”

            Arthur snorted at the poor joke. “Hopefully after this is done, we won’t need the giant robot.”

            “Hear, hear,” he heard Haylen mutter. The Scribe had been making noises about remaining with the Brotherhood chapter in the Commonwealth, no doubt because of her romance with the mercenary MacCready.

            “I’ll broadcast alerts to the Minutemen to start gathering,” Preston said as he pushed away from the war table. “No way can we be subtle about this now, Maxson. The Commonwealth’s at war with the Institute.”

            _Took your time,_ Arthur allowed himself to think dourly.

            “Sparrow, you want Codsworth here? He misses you,” Preston said to Sparrow.

            “Please. I miss him too,” Sparrow sighed.

            It took Arthur a moment to remind himself that Sparrow’s Mr Handy was called Codsworth.

            The General of the Minutemen touched his hat. “Good luck. I’ll keep you updated.”

            “We’ll do the same.”

            When the Minuteman was gone and the radio link to the Castle broken, Arthur looked to his senior staffers, the few and loyal that remained. “Sparrow, you’re not leaving the Prydwen from now until the Institute is a smoking ruin,” he ordered. “If I die, you will assume my place as Elder of the Eastern Brotherhood.”

            “Please don’t die,” she said softly.

            “I don’t plan on it. But I have to be there for the final battle.” Arthur studied the Proctors, Madison Li, Scribe Haylen, Paladins Brandis and Rhys, and Lancer-Captain Gavel. “If we lose, you turn the Prydwen around and take her to the Capital Wasteland. The Brotherhood can’t afford to lose her – or you, any of you.”

            Grim nods were his answer. Thank the Eternal Steel they didn’t believe in false reassurances. He also knew that the veterans read the implied message in those words: “Keep my betrothed and heir alive.”

            They were on the precipice of the final battle against the Institute. It was all or nothing at this point.

            “Ad Victoriam,” he said quietly, wondering if he’d ever get to say “To peace.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Trigger warning for death, violence, mentions of child neglect and child soldiers, and fantastic racism. The end for the Institute is here! Also, smut.

 

Subtlety wasn’t in the Brotherhood’s doctrine.

            Liberty Prime marched through the ruins of Boston, saluted the American war-dead at Bunker Hill, and followed the path cleared for it by MacCready and the Minutemen snipers. Arthur led the soldiers at its feet, Final Judgment making short work of the few synths that escaped the Minutemen, and was grateful for the reinforcement of his uniform and the new combat breastplate worn under the jacket. This was the war he’d been born to fight.

            “Courser to your left,” MacCready warned over the radio just before the synth leaped out of concealment.

            A laser Gatling gun in Arthur’s experienced hands simply mowed the hunter-killer down.

            It was slow going but they reached the C.I.T ruins, the vertibird handling aerial reconnaissance landing on the roof and Paladin Rhys jumping out. “Let’s make these bastards pay for Danse!” he told the Elder.

            Arthur smiled in grim agreement. “Yes, let’s.”

            They fell back as Liberty Prime got into place and fired up the eye lasers to burrow through to the Institute. Once the hole was open, Arthur turned to his soldiers and saw Preston Garvey and the Minutemen striding up to join him.

            “Today, we remove a scourge from the Commonwealth,” Arthur announced. “We avenge our fallen brethren, the innocents murdered by synthetic infiltrators and those who have suffered at the Institute’s hands. This is not my victory, not General Garvey’s – it is the victory of the men and women who lived, fought and died to bring us here. Ad Victoriam!”

            “Ad Victoriam!” was the soldiers’ answer.

            “Time to show the Institute the truth of the Commonwealth: ‘United We Stand’,” Garvey added quietly. “Roll out, Minutemen!”

            Arthur looked at the dark-skinned man and nodded deliberately. “Shall we go kick down the Director’s door, General Garvey?”

            Preston cranked up his musket. “It will be my pleasure, Elder Maxson.”

…

Shaun Finlay had little of Sparrow in him physically – the arch of her eyebrows, the rosy hue of her skin – and yet the withering glare he bestowed upon Arthur and Preston as they stormed into his chambers was purely hers. “Coming to execute an old dying man?” he asked scornfully.

            “You need to answer for what you’ve done,” Preston announced grimly. “But that doesn’t mean more people have to die. Call off the synths and we’ll sound the evacuation order.”

            “What’s the point? You’ve doomed us all.” Shaun coughed and spat blood. “I see my mother didn’t even have the decency to come see this through herself. She had to send her armoured goons.”

            “Your mother has more decency than you can ever imagine,” Arthur rasped coldly. He went to say more, but Preston placed a restraining hand on his arm.

            “We’ll sound the evacuation order. But call off the synths.”

            Garvey’s sincerity got through to the old man. He spat out blood and a password, which Scribe Haylen put into the terminal along with the evacuation order. Arthur reminded himself to have Madison and Virgil tell him who was involved in the synth programme so they could be dealt with.

            Shaun’s green-hazel eyes bored into Arthur. Sparrow said he had Nate Finlay’s gaze. “You took my mother from me,” he finally said. “I wanted her to become my successor.”

            “The person that you became broke your mother’s heart,” Arthur retorted.

            “My mother is emotionally fragile-“

            Beside him, Garvey barked in harsh laughter. “Tell the Railroad that, Finlay.”

            “Your mother is the sweetest, loveliest woman alive,” the Elder said quietly. “Until someone flips the right switches and turns her into the queen deathclaw preparing to savage those who threaten her mate and nest. The Railroad did that. The Institute attacking the Minutemen without provocation and killing Paladin Danse did that. With you and yours gone, she can go back to being the healer.”

            He turned away from the dying man. “Let’s go. We need to set those fusion charges.”

            “Maxson-“

            Arthur stopped and looked over at Shaun, whose expression was pleading.

            “Did my mother have anything to say about me?”

            He owed this bastard for the grief of losing Danse.

            “She did. She said that her son died when he was torn from his father’s arms.”

            He walked towards the advanced systems where the reactor was, Garvey and the rest scrambling to catch up with him.

            “That was cruel, Maxson,” Preston said severely.

            “So was watching my best friend die because of that little prick’s actions.”

            Civilians were fleeing from the too-clean Institute. Arthur radioed the Paladins to not shoot them unless they shot back.

            “The Institute had all this… and they tried to destroy us,” Preston said with a sigh.

            “We already have their civilian sciences and two of the Institute’s leading minds,” Arthur reassured him. “Madison Li used to be a Scribe and Brian Virgil is spending the rest of his life under armed guard because he was working on FEV experiments, but cooperated with us.”

            “Huh. I hear back west that your lot are clannish, isolated and xenophobic.”

            The Elder grimaced. “The Lost Hills and Mojave chapters are… conservative. The Elder of the Mojave chapter will soon be answering to me.”

            “Good to hear you’ve learned a few things from the Commonwealth.” Preston smiled slightly.

            “More from Sparrow and the Lyons – old Owyn, who raised me, would have liked you,” Arthur said as the door to the advanced systems opened up. “The Minutemen will form a government like the NCR in the west, won’t they?”

            “With no Institute to send a synth to wipe out the delegates, I hope so,” the General confirmed. “Whoever leads the local Brotherhood chapter is welcome to send a representative.”

            “Probably Star Paladin Brandis. He’s competent and loyal. Rhys will be his Sentinel and Haylen his Head Scribe.”

            Preston nodded just before they met the last of the Coursers. It was almost over. Soon, Arthur could return home to the Prydwen and restore order in the Brotherhood. Soon, he would know a little peace.

…

The Institute was nothing but a radioactive ruin and Sparrow, watching from the viewport of the command deck, buried her face in her hands and wept.

            Shaun was dead. The link to her past life was gone in nuclear fire just like the rest of it.

            He’d grown into a cold, ruthless monster but he was still her son.

            The Vault Dweller wiped away the tears and rested her hands on her still-flat belly. She would bring this child to term and make certain nothing would tear them from her or Arthur’s arms.

            _Nothing._

…

Arthur returned three hours later in triumph and the Prydwen full of cheering soldiers. Even Quinlan had forgotten his cool reserve to celebrate with the rest of them. The war was over.

            Once the formal reports for the archives were recorded and the written files updated, a victory feast for the Brotherhood and Minutemen was thrown. Watching Ronnie Shaw and Brandis, who’d been chosen to lead the Commonwealth chapter, laugh over a bottle of whiskey made Sparrow smile. The Prydwen might be returning to the Capital Wasteland eventually, but there were ties here that couldn’t be shattered so long as they were nurtured through love and tears and blood shed for friends by friends.

            Bearded lips brushed the back of her neck and she let herself sag into Arthur’s arms. “Don’t tell me how Shaun died,” she said with a sigh. “I don’t want to know.”

            “As you wish, Lady Maxson,” he agreed, much of the tension gone from his hoarse voice. For the first time since their lovemaking in the viewport, he was relaxed.

            “Thank you,” she sighed as those large hands, gentle for all the scars and calluses on them, rested on her hips with thumbs rubbing little circles to draw her closer, flush against the broad chest.

            He smiled against the back of her neck. “Cade’s cleared me for husbandly duties again.”

            By Commonwealth standards they were wed, having shared a bed together for the past couple months and Sparrow using his surname, though a formal Brotherhood ceremony would have to wait until the Elders were together.

            Sparrow’s past had gone up in nuclear fire and something deep inside her, an infected cyst of grief and pain, had been purged in a final white-hot fall of tears. She felt a little hollowed out, empty, like in the aftermath of a fever. She was weak… but she was whole and would grow stronger.

            “Can we escape?” she asked breathlessly as his fingers traced something on her back.

            Arthur chuckled hoarsely. “I think we can.”

…

Tracing the Litany on Sparrow’s back with gentle fingers probably bordered on blasphemy but Arthur could think of no better canvas. He led her back to his quarters and firmly locked the door. Not that anyone other than the most essential staff would be sober for the next couple days anyway.

            Sparrow’s hair had grown in the months since he met her, necessitating a heavier knot at the back of her head than the tight little bun she used to have, but he liked the feel of her longer tresses in his hands. Those radstag-doe eyes were bright, almost fever-bright, as he unpinned the knot and let her chestnut locks fall as a veil around that scarred, fine-boned face.

            They’d won the war. True, an internal feud awaited them with the Brotherhood, but until the Elders arrived for the wedding he was going to have here to invite their Commonwealth friends, he could let himself relax a little. Was this sweet overwhelming sense of relief peace? Arthur wasn’t sure but he liked it.

            The Vault Dweller took charge, mouth slanting across the pulse of his neck as she unzipped his uniform, Arthur having shrugged off his coat and breastplate on entering the bedroom. His chest, a mess of white keloid scarring from Kells’ laser and finer lines from old battles, was kissed as her finger traced the paths carved into his flesh as she did on a map. He should lay her down, tend to her as she deserved, but there was something too strong in the pull of those gentle kisses and fingers to deny.

            He pulled his arms from his uniform sleeves, legs suddenly weak when her tongue dipped into his navel, swirling a little, before continuing down and following the line of his zipper. Her destination and intention became clear and he released a ragged breath at the thought of Lady Maxson’s coral-hued lips around his cock.

            “Do you want me to stop?” Sparrow asked gently.

            “No,” he rasped, though he really should say yes and make love to her properly.

            Sparrow smiled and tugged his uniform down with his boxers to release a half-erect cock.

            Then she licked a stripe up it, tongue teasing at the slit on his head, fingers pushing back the foreskin and he promptly became fully erect.

            Then she took him into her mouth and hollowed her cheeks like she was eating noodles from a bowl. Her nose pressed up against his pubic hair and brought a ragged moan from his lips.

            By the third suck he was thrusting his hips eagerly, hands twined in her silky hair to keep her where he wanted her despite the selfishness of it. But instead of chiding him for it, she kept on sucking his cock, coming up for air and looking at him through half-lidded eyes to gauge his reaction.

            Arthur climaxed, the world disappearing in white noise and light as it had when the Institute exploded (everything he knew was entwined in war, brought flashbacks), and shuddered as his seed was swallowed by his Lady.

            Sparrow sat back on her heels, reaching for the can of purified water on the side table, and swallowed it as he struggled to regain his senses. She’d clearly done this before, probably with her late husband, and her calm competence reassured him that this was by her will. “Like that?” she asked with a smug little smile.

            “Yes,” he said hoarsely. For all the brief relationships he’d had with Brotherhood women that was his first blowjob. It seemed wrong to ask a woman to do an act from which she’d receive little pleasure – at least in his eyes.

            But Sparrow didn’t seem to mind.

            “It was high time I returned some of what you’ve selflessly given me,” she told him.

            The surge of love and adoration he felt for this woman should have grounded the Prydwen, it was so intense. It was _she_ who gave, above and beyond, and yet she told him _he_ was the selfless one.

            Then the feeling turned to tears and he didn’t understand why. Sparrow rose to her feet and embraced him as he wept into her chestnut hair, sobs that came from his chest and wracked his body. How long had it been since he’d just been _held_ like this?

            Not since his mother sent him away to be forged into steel after his father died, other than the time he cried over Danse… and that had been Sparrow too.

            She gently wiped away the tears on his cheeks when he finally stopped, feeling lighter for it. Steel his soul, steel his will, encased in flesh that was as hard as he could make it. That’s what the Brotherhood wanted from him. That’s what he’d been forged to be through loneliness, pain and grief.

            But with Sparrow he could be weak. He could rely on her strength, as he had on Danse’s, and know that she’d share the load.

            Shaun Finlay had called her ‘emotionally fragile’. His mother might just be the strongest person Arthur knew.

            “Ad pacem,” she murmured softly.

            “Huh?”

            “Ad pacem. ‘Ad Victoriam’ is Latin for ‘To victory’,” she explained. “’Ad pacem’ means ‘to peace’.”

            “How did you know that?” Not even the greatest Scribes knew that.

            “I studied law and a lot of the legal language was written in Latin, so I took a couple semesters at college.” Sparrow suddenly chuckled richly. “I should read you some of the poems I studied one day. The Romans were astonishingly filthy-minded.”

            His cock twitched at the idea of that warm, sweet voice uttering erotically filthy things in the language the Scribes used for science and law. Seemed like he wasn’t the only one with a taste for blasphemy.

            Then the more practical applications of her knowledge hit him. “You could translate communications in Caesar’s Legion out west,” he said. “I don’t know a lot about them but they’re rumoured to be ruthless scum bastards who might look east one day.”

            Sparrow’s jaw set grimly. “I’ve heard enough from the caravans about them to know that I wish the NCR the best of luck in obliterating them.”

            “The NCR and the Western Brotherhood of Steel are at conflict with each other.”

            “And Caesar’s Legion embodies everything that is wrong and sick about war.”

            That… told him, a hardened veteran, more than he wanted to know.

            Then his lady shook her head. “Another problem for another day. I believe you wanted to pursue some husbandly duties?”

            Arthur grinned and picked her up to do just that.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warnings for death, violence, mentions child neglect, child soldiers and fantastic racism. I have some particular head-canon on what the Brotherhood of Steel should do in the future, so please bear with me if it doesn’t quite fit canon. Final chapter, yays! Thanks for sticking by me and reading this story. :)

 

As expected, the Elders all readily decided to come to the wedding, even if it meant vertibird-hopping across the continent to the Prydwen. Accompanying them were the highest-ranking members of the Brotherhood of Steel’s factions as escorts – Arthur had warned them that the Minutemen wouldn’t take kindly to an army invading the Commonwealth despite their willingness to have a chapter here. At least the Airport had enough space to hold them all.

            Sparrow’s pregnancy was visible now at four months along and she glowed like all expectant mothers. The lines of pain and grief around her eyes and mouth were still deep but she smiled more these days – as did he. The days were spent working on setting up the new chapter and the nights were spent with him rubbing her ripening belly like it was a dream that would disappear if he couldn’t touch it.

            Arthur had decided he wasn’t going to take a Sentinel just yet. Danse’s death was too raw and the people he trusted the most would be founding the Commonwealth Brotherhood. Hopefully with the Institute defeated, the order could return to a quiet vigilance over the Wasteland. It would be nice to spend a few years fighting nothing worse than the odd super mutant or feral ghoul. He knew better than to hope for a few years of _no_ fighting.

            Some of the Elders weren’t going to like changes he had planned. Squires had to be a minimum of fourteen years old now (and Sparrow had thought that too young until someone pointed out that in the Wasteland, you were an adult at fifteen or sixteen) and wouldn’t be allowed to actively go into combat until sixteen. Arthur carried his scars too much to inflict them on other children.

            Military tech wouldn’t be shared but everyone prospered if agricultural and medical advances were spread – the strains of razorgrain and mutfruit that Madison Li and Brian Virgil bred, for instance, grew twice as well as the Brotherhood version, which was twice as good as the local crops. Of course, the loyal settlements received the benefits first, but the rest were getting it in trickles via trade.

            “Elder Maxson?”

            Startled from his reverie, Arthur looked down at the Squire who regarded him solemnly. “Yes, Haines?” he asked.

            “Elder Casdin, Knight McNamara and Head Scribe Bigsley are here.”

            Arthur sighed inwardly. “I’ll go meet them.”

            It was interesting that the former Outcast Elder, the deposed Mojave Elder and the person Arthur left in charge of the Citadel in his absence were travelling together. Arthur strode into the command deck where they waited, talking quietly with Sparrow and her aide Knight Cait. Casdin was still balding and buff in his power armour, Nolan was slender and grim in his uniform, and Bigsley sad-faced in his crimson Scribe robes.

            Sparrow looked over her shoulder, flashing him a reassuring smile as Arthur joined them. He kissed her on the forehead before addressing the men. “Decided to beat the last minute rush, eh?”

            Casdin snorted. “No, wanted to be the first to see the big hole where the Institute is and to meet the woman who managed to make you settle down.”

            Arthur took the former Outcast’s forearm and clasped it formally. He couldn’t say he _liked_ the man but he respected him for the strength of his convictions. “It only took two hundred or so years of freezing for her to come to me, Henry.”

            “So I’ve heard.” The Elder returned the warrior’s clasp. “I can’t say I’m thrilled about some of the choices you’ve made, Maxson. But _I’m_ not the one who destroyed the Institute, so I’ll trust that tactician’s mind of yours.”

            “Thank you, Casdin.” Arthur gave the man a brief nod. “As much as I revere old Owyn, he went too far in one direction to make up for the mistakes of the Western Brotherhood. I’m hoping to find an even balance between doctrine and decency.”

            Casdin’s lips pursed. “Is it true what they said about Danse?”

            “Yes. And he still died a Brotherhood of Steel Paladin, defending my lady and the Airport from his creators. But he will be the single exception.” Ingram and Neriah had been emphatic on that with Teagan’s backing.

            “I can make an exception for Danse,” Casdin said reluctantly. “Hardin’s _not_ , however.”

            Arthur bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. “I intend to have a little discussion with Hardin. One of his supporters shot me in the chest and if not for Danse, I’d be dead.”

            Casdin was traditionalist to the bone but above all things, he revered the Maxson bloodline. “What?” he barked.

            “He swayed Kells to betray Sarah Lyons in battle because she was apparently making me weak,” Arthur said bitterly. “Kells objected to our pragmatism in leaving escaped non-combat synths alone because we can’t fight on multiple fronts and when I kept Danse as my bodyguard, the bastard shot me. It took two Paladins in power armour to haul Danse off Kells before he killed him.”

            “…I never liked the Lyons. But when I rebelled, I did so openly,” Casdin said flatly. “I never thought Kells would… Is he alive? I have questions.”

            “We have a taped recording but someone killed him during the Boston Airport invasion,” Sparrow answered grimly.

            “Sneaking behind backs is Hardin’s style,” Nolan noted bitterly. “He managed to sway the Courier onto his side in return for support in the Battle of Hoover Dam.”

            “The Courier?” Sparrow asked curiously.

            “The ruler of New Vegas,” Nolan answered. “Sly little bastard who played the Legion and the NCR against each other, killed Mr House and rules in his own right.”

            “At least he’s neutral,” Casdin said with a sigh. “But yes, as soon as McNamara here showed up on my doorstep, I had to take the poor bastard in. His only fault was trying to keep the Mojave Brotherhood alive.”

            “The isolation bit us in the end,” Nolan admitted unhappily.

            “The Western Brotherhood’s very overstretched,” Sparrow noted quietly.

            “Yes, but it’s also our heartland, Lady Maxson,” McNamara pointed out. “Lost Hills in particular is our birthplace. The state of Maxson was once our protectorate until we entered a war with the NCR.”

            “A war you’re losing,” Sparrow pointed out calmly. “I’ve seen how these sorts of conflicts end, Knight – in extinction for one or both sides.”

            “She grew up during the Great War and literally felt the wind of a nuclear bomb as she was lowered into Vault 111,” Arthur explained to the trio. “I admit, the distance between chapters is troubling me too – and it’s easier for the Western Brotherhood to pack up and leave for the East Coast, where things are more… fluid… than for the brethren here to go to the west.”

            “Especially since the Capital Wasteland is ours and the Commonwealth is…?” Casdin’s voice was careful.

            “An ally. The Brotherhood – in the form of soon-to-be Elder Brandis – have a representative on the Commonwealth’s United Settlement Assembly,” Arthur replied. “The Minutemen don’t always agree with our ideas, but they fought with us against the Institute, and we’ve been trading with each other for some time.”

            Casdin nodded thoughtfully. “More diplomatic than I like but we got treated to an observation of the Castle’s artillery on the way here.”

            Garvey could be subtle when he chose to be and while he might trust Arthur, he didn’t know the other Elders. “That is one of the main reasons to be polite to them,” Arthur agreed dryly. “That and I consider General Garvey a personal friend and battle-brother.”

            The Outcast Elder got the hint. “Understood, Elder Maxson.”

            Arthur turned to the silent Bigsley. “You’re quiet, Head Scribe,” he noted to the man he’d known for years. “Bad vertibird ride?”

            “No. I was putting a few things together.” The Scribe looked to Sparrow. “Lady Maxson, was your maiden name Killian?”

            “It was,” Sparrow confirmed.

            “Ah.” Bigsley’s tone was significant. “Daughter of Elisabeth Killian, nee Ahern?”

            “Yes. And _yes_ , I know my mother was a founding member of the Enclave,” Sparrow replied acerbically. “I’m also fully aware of their actions in the West and the Capital Wasteland.”

            “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Casdin growled.

            Arthur hadn’t known that about Sparrow’s ancestry. “Were you the only decent member of your family, love?” he asked sympathetically.

            “Shaun’s father was a good man,” she countered. “If I’d raised Shaun…”

            “Director of the Institute. Hardin’s going to _love_ you.” Bigsley’s voice was dry. “However, I just wanted to let you know I have some copies of holotapes your mother made if you’d like them.”

            Sparrow blinked and looked apologetic. “I would, thank you.”

            _Given that I intend to have Hardin’s head in the next few days, you won’t need to worry about his opinion,_ he thought at Sparrow.

            “I don’t doubt your loyalty, Lady Maxson,” Bigsley continued. “Not after your actions.”

            “Thank you, Head Scribe,” Sparrow told him with a mildly relieved sigh.

            “We haven’t had a High Elder since your grandfather and well… Jeremy got us into the war with the NCR,” Casdin said sourly. “We’ll still need to decide what to do – I get the tactical advantages of withdrawing to the East, especially since you’ve firmly established us here, but the Western Elders are going to shit enough bricks to build a new Citadel because we’ll be leaving our birthplace _and_ they’ll lose their relative autonomy.”

            “I take it negotiation to keep a token chapter at Lost Hills with the NCR isn’t an option?” Sparrow asked quietly.

            “Given we started the war, we’d need to literally kiss the NCR’s boots,” McNamara said dourly.

            Sparrow raised an eyebrow. “Pretty little puzzle. We can worry about it later. Do you need anything to eat or drink?”

            “Baths and rest would be preferable,” Casdin said after nods from the other two. “I need to think over what you’ve said, Maxson. Don’t worry, my allegiance is yours – you did what you said you’d do. But it’s going to be the other Elders we’ll need to handle.”

            “Understood,” Arthur said. “Thank you.”

            “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Maxson,” the Outcast told Sparrow with a nod. “I trust my High Elder’s judgment when it comes to you.”

            “Thank you,” Sparrow said with an inclination of her head.

            They left after saluting and Arthur turned to Sparrow. “I didn’t know that about your mother.”

            “I didn’t put it together until recently and well, given she’s been dead for decades, I thought…” Sparrow rubbed her belly. “Is this going to cause trouble?”

            “With Hardin and the Lost Hills Elders, possibly,” Arthur admitted. “But I’m not giving you up and your fertility – as backwards as that might sound – will win you points with the Lost Hills lot. They’re very keen on continuing the dynasty.”

            He wrapped his arms around her and just held her for a moment. One more hurdle and they could spend the next few years in relative peace until the _next_ crisis came up.

…

The Elders of Lost Hills turned out to be a very ancient man named Rothschild, a friend of Owyn Lyons and former Scribe, and Rococo Rockfowl, a member of the former Outcasts who served as the old man’s muscle. Sparrow got the feeling it was one of those compromises Arthur mentioned.

            Hardin was last to come. Big, square-faced and small-eyed, he looked at Sparrow witheringly but said nothing, instead saluting Arthur curtly. “Elder Maxson,” he grated.

            “Elder Hardin.” Arthur’s voice was flat.

            “Good to see you’ve finally decided to do your duty by the Brotherhood.” Again a flick of the eyes towards Sparrow. “You’ll have to foster the child back West, of course.”

            “When my child is of an age to be Squired, I’ll consider it.” Yes, there was an edge to Arthur’s voice.

            “Maxsons aren’t raised, they’re forged.” Hardin rubbed his combed-over scalp. “You should know that.”

            “It might be nice to see my children learning how to strip apart a hotplate or read a scientific treatise instead of how to stab a man in the kidneys at the age of ten,” Arthur said acidly. “Hand to hand training? Yes, start that young, along with calisthenics and fitness training for power armour, but I don’t want the children of the Brotherhood fighting until they’re fifteen, sixteen unless it’s an emergency.”

            “We’d need to throw in tactics and strategy,” Rockfowl pointed out.

            “That would come under the extensive education I want every Brotherhood child receiving,” Arthur replied. “My lady was pre-War – you know this – and she was educated from the ages of five to twenty-two. She is an accomplished medic, fluent in Latin and held her own in a debate with Proctor Quinlan involving Brotherhood doctrine. I want every one of our children to have ten years of education to the best of their abilities in the Scribe _and_ Paladin skillsets.”

            Rothschild raised an eyebrow. “That would keep the Scribes busy.”

            “And provide more in the long run.” Arthur smiled wryly at the old man. “Haven’t you always complained about idiot Paladins getting in the way when you’re doing Scribe stuff?”

            “Good point,” Rothschild said dryly. “Now, shall we take a seat? We might as well get the business out of the way so we can celebrate the wedding and defeat of the Institute.”

            They took seats on the couches while Sparrow sat in a comfortable chair and Arthur took the high-backed chair he saved for formal meetings.

            “There’s been some preliminary discussion concerning your handling of the Danse incident,” Rothschild finally said once everyone was comfortable. “Since it-“

            “He,” Arthur corrected. “Danse was a synth but he died more human than a few Brothers I could name.”

            “Very well.” Rothschild sounded like he was humouring a pupil. “Since he died protecting you, we’ll let him keep the name and rank in the records. But we need to do a thorough investigation into how this slipped past our people.”

            “Proctor Ingram and Senior Scribe Neriah have created a machine which scans for synth components; it’s easily made from scrapped materials and we can give you the plans when you go,” Sparrow answered calmly. If she could win over Lost Hills, they had the Brotherhood. “Before its destruction, the Railroad had the memories of many synths replaced as a means of assimilating them into the Wasteland.”

            “Why aren’t you hunting down the rest of the abominations?” Hardin snapped.

            “Because the war against the Institute lost me a fair portion of my command staff and troops,” Arthur retorted. “We were attacked by the Railroad and the Institute, and made alliance with the Minutemen to deal with the latter.”

            “Relying on local forces is not outside Brotherhood doctrine,” Quinlan added pointedly, patting Molly.

            “Yes, but treating them as equals is,” Hardin countered.

            “It’s called artillery,” Teagan said dryly.

            “Preston Garvey is my personal friend and battle-brother,” Arthur repeated for the Elders who didn’t know yet. “And the partnership has strengthened us both.”

            “Besides, wasn’t an outsider responsible for your own rise to Elder?” Sparrow asked sweetly.

            “She’s got you there, Hardin,” Rockfowl drawled.

            “I made temporary use of an outsider to remove an ineffective leader,” Hardin grated.

            Arthur leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “That seems to be your style, doesn’t it? Get someone else to do the dirty work of a leader you deem to be weak steel’.”

            Hardin kept his game face. “What are you implying, Maxson?”

            In reply, Arthur switched on the holotape of Kells’ confession.

            _“Just kill me already.”_

_“Oh no. I’m just here for these. You’re not worthy of them. These will be melted down and the metal discarded, your name removed from the records. The alloy that is the Brotherhood has no need of weak steel.”_

_“Wait, don’t go-“_ Kells’ voice paused. _“Elder Hardin spread rumours that the Lyons were weak steel and that for the sake of Arthur, whose soul was forged from the Eternal Steel itself, they had to be eliminated. Sarah was coddling the boy even after he saved his patrol and took out that deathclaw.”_

 _“Both thanks to the vigilance of Danse. That a_ machine _should show more of the Steel than you, Kells.”_

_“That’s not Maxson. Not the real Maxson. It’s a synth-“_

_“Don’t be more of a fool than you are. When the order was given to test all senior staffers against the synth DNA lists, we also tested Arthur Maxson’s to be certain. Lady Maxson’s too.”_

_“How do I know you’re not a synth? Or those two?”_

_“Call me a synth again and I’ll give you an eye to match the lip Sparrow gave you.”_ That was Cait.

            _“I see the stress of being a traitor got to you, Kells. Ladies, shall we?”_

Arthur pressed stop. “I became aware of the convenient coincidence that had Kells surviving where better soldiers than he died. My lady had already requested a personal history of recent Brotherhood events so she could understand what shaped me into the Elder I am today, so it was easy enough to fit the investigation into the interviews. Kells started showing signs of stress shortly after and since we were also deciding what to do with Star Paladin Danse, I used the trial to bring out the truth.”

            Arthur inserted another holotape and let it play. Sparrow listened to the trial once again and was surprised at how commanding she sounded, even when ready to cry over Danse’s loyalty. “Incidentally, that ended with me getting shot by the traitor Kells,” the Elder said acidly when the holotape finished playing.

            “Eternal fucking Steel.” That was Rockfowl. “The Lyons had their heads up their asses but…”

            “Sarah was more sympathetic to Outcast ideals than you might think,” Rothschild said sadly. “But she never got the chance to prove it.”

            “Steel…” Casdin rubbed his head. “This is a fucking mess, Maxson. Kells set the Chain That Binds on fire and pissed on the ashes – no formal challenge – but the most you can prove is that Hardin’s rhetoric – which is in line with doctrine – inspired him.”

            Hardin rose to his feet. “I’m challenging you, Maxson.” His voice was harsh. “You’ve seeded the Finlay wench, so I don’t need to be worried about ending your line.”

            “Wench?” Sparrow asked flatly.

            “Shut up. So far as I’m concerned, you’ve helped ruin the boy.” Hardin was blunt. “If you behave, I’ll find a use for you other than birthing the Maxson heir. Of course, I can’t let you raise the child and ruin them.”

            He turned to Arthur. “You’ve insulted my honour, Maxson. Will you accept the challenge for the position of High Elder or retract your statement and cede your position?”

            Her husband’s smile was a grim thing. “It will be my pleasure to shatter the weak steel that you are, Hardin. Challenge accepted.”

            “Very well then. Let’s go down to the Airport. We wouldn’t want to destroy the Prydwen.”

…

“Pissing match in power armour. This should be interesting.”

            Cait reverted to sarcasm to hide her worry. Hardin looked like a nasty son of a bitch and she could imagine some of the things he’d do as High Elder. Pity they didn’t have more warning – MacCready could head-shot a Paladin in full power armour as easy as breathing and it’d be in _her_ doctrine to remove the weak steel like that.

            “It’s old versus new,” Sparrow said softly. She didn’t look happy about this but she’d stick by the Brotherhood’s traditions because Arthur would. Cait admired the Elder but thought he was a bit daft about being practical. Good thing Sparrow was marrying him – if he survived this battle.

            “Shame can’t slip somethin’ into his drink before,” Cait muttered in Irish Gaelic.

            “Cait, _no_ …”

            “I won’t because you don’t like it.”

            “I promised Arthur I’d let him deal with Hardin. Of course, if Arthur dies, the gloves are off. No one’s taking my baby from me, not unless they kill me first.”

            “If that happens, I’ll grab the kid and head to Sanctuary with some people I trust.” Haylen and MacCready – Rhys and Brandis would help them leave, but wouldn’t abandon their posts.

            “Thank you. Codsworth can help you with the baby. He’s trained to handle that stuff.” Sparrow’s smile was a little bleak.

            “Of course, Arthur’s gonna turn this fucker into ground Brahmin and we’ll be celebrating the wedding,” Cait said with forced cheerfulness as the two Elders strode into the battlefield.

…

“You can back down, Maxson,” Hardin said just before he put on the helmet. “Be pulled down to Paladin. Raise your child in the Capital Wasteland.”

            Arthur ignored him, peering through the glass lenses of his own helmet and noting every bit of weakness the VATS programme brought up. His own armour had been quickly modded by Ingram to be energy-resistant as they were both fighting with Gatling laser guns.

            “No,” he rasped. “I owe you for Sarah.”

            “She was weak steel and apparently ruined you in the quenching,” Hardin drawled. “Or was it Sparrow? Bad metal _there_ , boy.”

            “You’re not weak steel, Hardin. You’re fool’s gold,” Arthur retorted. “Anyone who follows you is a fool.”

            He had a moment’s warning of the Gatling gun’s barrel spinning before it fired – but that moment was enough to dodge to the side. All the calisthenics that Danse insisted he do in power armour was paying off.

            One of the laser beams glanced off his armour and Arthur was already aiming with Final Judgment in the VATS programme, time like sticky sap flowing from a cut branch, and firing. Most of his own lasers struck before Hardin’s gun spun up again and he had to dodge yet again.

            It was cat and radroach as they spun around in the circle. Hardin ran out of ammo first and as per trial by combat regulations, Arthur had to set aside Final Judgment. Both of them were hit, minor scrapes and bruises, and the younger Elder decided to take the initiative this time.

            Before Hardin could request another weapon, Arthur closed in and activated the power fists in his gauntlets to pummel the older man’s torso plating. It actually dented under the force and forced Hardin back in shock. Then Arthur switched them off, relying on the brawling skills Cait had taught him to block Hardin’s own boxing training.

            They pummelled each other until Arthur, bruised from head to toe, ran out of energy in the fusion core within his power armour. That meant he had to step out and give Hardin time to do the same. All trials were held on equal footing and weaponry.

            But Hardin charged forward and punched Arthur’s armour in the stomach, flinging him out to skid along the concrete. The Mojave Elder stepped out of his power armour, grinning and breathing heavily.

            Arthur struggled to his feet and shook his head, battlecoat swinging around his calves. “That was on the shady side of legality, Hardin.”

            “But it’s legal.” Hardin looked more amused than anything else. “I’ll give you another chance to retract your statement, Maxson. I don’t want to kill one of your bloodline. Madison Li’s paranoia and Kells’ own treason’s got to you.”

            “You shouldn’t have threatened Lady Maxson,” Arthur snarled as his hand went to his right pocket.

            “She isn’t Lady Maxson yet. Hell, she _shouldn’t_ be.”

            “You may think so. Thankfully, others disagree.”

            Arthur skirted the edge of the battle-circle as Hardin kept his distance, drawing his own combat knife. In the moment between Hardin drawing the knife and closing in, the younger man tossed his knife up, caught it by the tip and flung it at the Mojave Elder’s unprotected throat.

            It struck cleanly and Hardin’s hand went to the blade, pulling it out with a great gush of blood before he fell face down on the ground. Arthur walked over after unsheathing his other combat knife and lifted the dying man by the hair, slicing his jugular to make sure.

            “Sarah Lyons knew how to throw a knife and she taught me how,” he rasped at the corpse. “Fitting I use a trick of hers to avenge her.”

            He wiped both knives off on Hardin’s uniform and sheathed them.

            Then the cheering began to acclaim him as High Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

…

McNamara was reinstated as Mojave Elder and sent west to bring the remnants of the chapter east while Rothschild and Rockfowl were advised to open communications with the NCR if they didn’t want to leave Lost Hills. Brandis now commanded the Commonwealth Chapter and Casdin was moved to the Capital Wasteland as Arthur decreed that he would live on the Prydwen permanently and travel between the chapters.

            The Brotherhood’s doctrine would be reinterpreted on a broader scale, Arthur seen as having carried out the will of the Eternal Steel by executing Hardin in clean combat. Sparrow made note of those who shouted this the loudest – because she’d bet they’d have supported Hardin before his death.

            There would be trouble – Rothschild was old and Rockfowl not particularly leadership material without the ex-Scribe, Casdin wasn’t young either and with Hardin’s death, they’d only removed the tip of the iceberg when it came to the die-hard conservatives.

            But they’d bought themselves a little time, a little space for their child to live without war for their first years.

            Sparrow touched her belly as she waited to be escorted by Quinlan into the Airport Hangar for the formal wedding ceremony, then looked through the window to find Arthur staring at her unerringly.

            In healing his wounds, she’d found treatment for her own.

            _Ad pacem,_ she thought as Quinlan opened the door. _To peace._


End file.
